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Vol. 5, No. 234. Oct. 5 1883. Annual Subscription, $50 



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PICTURES 

FROM ITALY. 



BY. 



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A neat CLOTH BINDING tor this volum« cm he obtained from any booksttler tr mwtdeafer, price I Sets. 



LOVELL'S LIBRARYi-CATALOGUE. 



Hyperion, by H. W. Longfellow. .20 
Outre-Mer, by H. W. Longfellow. 20 
The Happy Boy, by Bjomaon. ... 10 

A rue, by BjOapon 10 

Frankensteiu.%v Mrs. Shelley. ..10 

The Last of the "Mohicans. 20 

Cly tie, by Joseph Hatton 20 

The Moonstone, by (. ollins,p'tl.l0 
The Moonstone, by Collins, P't II . 10 
Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens. 20 

The Coming Race, by Lytton 10 

Leila, by Lord LyttOD 10 

The Three Spaniards, by Walker. 20 
TheTricksof the GreeksUnveiled.20 
L'Abbe Constantin, by Halevy..20 
Freckles, by R. F Redcliff.. ..20 
The Dark Colleen, by Harriett Jay. 20 
They Were Married! by Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

Seekers after God, by Farrar 20 

The Spanish Nun, byDeQuincey.10 

The Green Mountain Boys 20 

Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe 20 

Second Thoughts, by Broughton.20 
The New Magdalen, by Collins.. 20 

Divorce, by Margaret Lee 20 

Life of Washington, by Henley . .20 
Social Etiquette, by Mrs. Saville.15 
Single Heart and Double Face.. 10 

Irene, by Carl Detlef 20 

Vice Versa, by F. Anstey 20 

Ernest Maltravers* by Lord Lytton20 
The Haunted House and Calderon 

the Courtier, by Lord Lytton.. 10 
John Halifax, by Miss Mulock. . .20 

800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 

The Cryptogram, by Jules Verne. 10 

Life of Marion, by Horry 20 

Paul and Virginia 10 

Tale of Two C. ties, by Dickens.. %■ 

The Hermits, by Kingsley 20 

An Adventure in Thule, and Mar- 
riage of Moira Fergus, Black . 10 

A Marriage in H igh Life 20 

Robin, by Mrs. Parr 20 

Two on a Tower, byThos Hardy.20 

Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson 10 

Alice; or, the Mysteries, being 

Part II. of Ernest Maltravers. .20 
Duke of Kandos, by A. Mathey. ..20 

Baron Munchausen 10 

A Princess of Thule, by Black.. 20 
The Secret Despatch, by Grant, 20 
Early Days of Christianity, by 

Canon Farrar, D D , Part I. . . .20 
Early Days of Christianity, Pt. 11.20 
Vicar of Wakefield, by Goldsmith . 10 
Progress and Poverty, by Henry 

George 20 

The Spy, by Cooper 20 

Ea^t, Lynne, by Mrs. Wood... 20 
A Strange Story, by Lord Lytton.. .20 

Adam Bede, by Eliot, Parti 15 

Adam Bede, Part II 15 

The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon. . . .20 

Portia, by The Duchess 20 

Last Days of Pompeii, by Lytton. .20 
The Two Duchesses, by Mathey. .20 
Tom Brown's School Days 20 



•3. The Wooing O't, by Mrs. Alex- 
ander, Part I 15 

The Wooing O't, Part II 15 

63. The Vendetta, by Balzac 20 

64. Hypatia,byC has.King-ley,P'tI.15 
Hypatia. by Kingsley, Part II 16 

65. Selma, by Mrs. J. G. Smith 15 

66. Margaret and her Bridesmaids. .20 

67. Horse Shoe Robinson, Parti.... 15 
Horse Shoe Robinson, Part II. . . 15 

68. Gulliver's Travels, by Swift 20 

69. Amos Barton, by George Eliot. . . 10 

70. The Berber, by W. E. Mayo 20 

71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot. . .10 

72. The Queen of the County 20 

73. Life of Cromwell, by Hood... 15 
74 Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. 20 

75. Child's History of England 20 

76. Molly Bawn, by The Duchess. . .20 

77. Pillone, bv William Bergsoe 15 

78. Phyllis, by The Duchess 20 

79. Romola, by Geo. Eliot, Part I. . .15 
Romola, by Geo. Eliot, Part II. .15 

80. Science in Short Chapters 20 

81. Zanoni, by Lord Lytton 20 

82. A Daughter of Heth .20 

83. The Right and W T rong Uses of V 

the Bible, R. Heber Newton. ..20 

84. Night and Moraine. Pt. 1 15 

Night and Morning. Part II 15 

85. Shandon Bells, by Wm. Black. .20 

86. Monica, by the Duchess 10 

87. Heart and'Science, by Collins. . .20 

88. The Golden Calf, by Braddon. . .20 

89. The Dean's Daughter 20 

90. Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess.. 20 

91. Pickwick Papers, Part I 20 

Pickwick Papers, Part II 20 

93. Airy, Fairy Lilian, The Duchess. 20 

93. McLeod of Dare, by Wm. Black.20 

94. Tempest Tossed, by Tilton. P't 1.20 
Tempest Tossed, by TiltomP't II 20 

95. Letters from High Latitudes, by 

Lord Dufferin 20 

96. Gideon Fle.ce, by Lucy 20 

97. India and Ceylon, by E. Haeckel . .20 

98. The Gypsy Queen 20 

99. The Admiral's Ward 20 

100. Mimport.by E L. Bynner,P'tI..15 
Nimport, byE. L Bynner, P't 11.15 

101 . Harry Holbrooke 20 

102. Tritons, by E. L. Bynner, P'tl. ..15 
Tritons, by E. L. Bynner, P t II. .15 

103. Let Nothing You Dismay, by 

Walter Besant 10 

104. £ady Audley's Secret, by Miss 

M. E. Braddon .....20 

105. Woman's Place To-day, by Mrs. 

LillieDevereux Blake 20 

106. Dtinallan, by Kennedy, Part I.. .15 
Dunallan, by Kennedy, Part II. .15 

107. Housekeeping and Home-mak- 

ing, by Marion Harland 15 

108. NoNewThing,by W.E.Norris.20 

109. The Spoopendyke Papers 20 

110. False Hopes, byGoldwin Smith. 15 

111. Labor and Cap'tal 20 

112. Wanda, by Ouida, Part 1 15 

Waflda, by Ouida. Part II 15 



PICTURES FROM ITALY 



feY 

CHARLES DICKENS. 



NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 and 16 Vesey Street. 



! 9 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



THE READER'S PASSPORT. 

If the readers of this volume will be so kind as to take 
their credentials for the different places which are the subject 
of its author's reminiscences, from the Author himself, per- 
haps they may visit them, in fancy, the more agreeably, and 
with a better understanding of what they are to expect. 

Many books have been written upon Italy, affording many 
means of studying the history of that interesting country, and 
the innumerable associations entwined about it. I make but 
little reference to that stock of information ; not at all regard- 
ing it as a necessary consequence of my having had recourse 
to the storehouse for my own benefit, that I should reproduce 
its easily' accessible contents before the eyes of my readers. 

Neither will there be found, in these pages, any grave ex- 
amination into the government or misgovernment of any por- 
tion of the country. No visitor of that beautiful land can fail 
to have a strong conviction on the subject ; but as I chose 
when residing there, a Foreigner, to abstain from the discus- 
sion of any such questions with any order of Italians, so I 
would rather not enter on the inquiry now. During my 
twelve months' occupation of a house at Genoa, I never found 
that authorities constitutionally jealous were distrustful of me ; 
and I should be sorry to give them occasion to regret their 
free courtesy, either to myself or any of my countrymen. 

There is, probably, not a famous Picture or Statue in all 

- Italy, but could be easily buried under a mountain of printed 

paper devoted to dissertations on it. I do not, therefore 

(413) 



4I4 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

though an earnest admirer of Painting and Sculpture, expa- 
tiate at any length on famous Pictures and Statues. 

This Book is a series of faint reflections — mere shadows 
in the water — of places to which the imaginations of most 
people are attracted in a greater or less degree, on which 
mine had dwelt for years, and which have some interest for 
all. The greater part of the descriptions were written on the 
spDt, and sent home, from time to time, in private letters. I 
do not mention the circumstance as an excuse for any defects 
they may present, for it would be none ; but as a guarantee 
to the Reader that they were at least penned in the fulness of 
the subject, and with the liveliest impressions of novelty and 
freshness. 

If they have ever a fanciful and idle air, perhaps the 
reader will suppose them written in the shade of a Sunny 
Day, in the midst of the objects of which they treat, and will 
like them none the worse for having such influences of the 
country upon them. 

I hope I am not likely to be misunderstood by Professors 
of the Roman Catholic faith, on account of anything contained 
in these pages. I have clone my best, in one of my former 
productions, to do justice to them ; and I trust, in this, they 
will do justice to me. When I mention any exhibition that 
impressed me as absurd or disagreeable, I do not seek to 
connect it, or recognize it as necessarily connected with, any 
essentials of their creed. When I treat of the ceremonies of 
the Holy Week, I merely treat of their effect, and do not 
challenge the good and learned Dr. Wiseman's interpretation 
of their meaning. When I hint a dislike of nunneries for 
young girls who abjure the world before they have ever proved 
or known it ; or doubt the ex officio sanctity of all Priests and 
Friars ; I do no more than many conscientious Catholics both 
abroad and at home. 

I have likened these pictures to shadows in the water, and 
would fain hope that I have, nowhere, stirred the water so 
roughly, as to mar the shadows. I could never desire to be on 
better terms with all my friends than now, w r hen distant moun- 
tains rise once more in my path. For I need not hesitate 
to avow, that, bent on correcting a brief mistake I made, not 
long ago, in disturbing the old relations between myself and 
my readers, and departing for a moment from my old pursuits, 
I am about to resume them, joyfully, in Switzerland ; where 
during another year of absence, I can at once work out the 



PICTURES FROM IT At Y. 



415 



themes I have now in my mind, without interruption; and 
while I keep my English audience within speaking distance, 
extend my knowledge of a noble country, inexpressibly at- 
tractive to me.* 

This book is made as accessible as possible, because it 
would be a great pleasure to me if I could hope, through its 
means, to compare impressions with some among the multi- 
tudes who will hereafter visit the scenes described with inter- 
est and delight. 

And I have only now, in passport wise, to sketch my 
reader's portrait, which I hope may be thus supposititiously 
traced for either sex : 

Complexion Fair., 

Eyes Very cheerful. 

Nose : Not supercilious. 

Mouth Smiling. 

Visage Beaming. 

General Expression Extremely agreeable. 



GOING THROUGH FRANCE. 

On a fine Sunday morning in the Midsummer time and 
weather of eighteen hundred and forty-four, it was, my good 
friend, when — don't be alarmed ; not when two travellers 
might have been observed slowly making their way over that 
picturesque and broken ground by which the first chapter of 
a Middle Aged novel is usually attained — but when an Eng- 
lish travelling-carriage of considerable proportions, fresh from 
the shady halls of the Pantechnicon near Belgrave Square, 
London, was observed (by a very small French soldier ; for I 
saw him look at it) to issue from the gate of the Hotel Meu- 
rice in the Rue Rivoli at Paris. 

I am no more bound to explain why the English family 
travelling by this carriage, inside and out, should be starting 
for Italy on a Sunday morning, of all good days in the week, 
than I am to assign a reason for all the little men in Franoe 

* This was written in 1846. 



4 i6 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

being soldiers, and all the big men postilions ; which is the 
invariable rule. But, they had some sort of reason for what 
they did, I have no doubt • and their reason for being there 
at all, was, as you know, that they were going to live in fair 
Genoa for a year ; and that the head of the family purposed, 
in that space of time, to stroll about, wherever his restless 
humor carried him. 

And it would have been small comfort to me to have ex- 
plained to the population of Paris generally, that I was that 
Head and Chief ; and not the radiant embodiment of good 
humor who sat beside me in the person of a French Courier 
— best of servants and most beaming of men ! Truth to say, 
he looked a great deal more patriarchal than I, who, in the 
shadow Of his portly presence, dwindled down to no account 
at all. 

There was, of course, very little in the aspect of Paris— 
as we rattled near the dismal Morgue and over the Pont 
Neuf — to reproach us for our Sunday travelling. The wine- 
shops (every second house) were driving a roaring trade; 
awnings were spreading, and chairs and tables arranging, 
outside the cafes, preparatory to the eating of ices, and drink- 
ing of cool liquids, later in the day ; shoe-blacks were busy 
on the bridges ; shops were open ; carts and wagons clattered 
to and fro ; the narrow, up-hill, funnel-like streets across the 
River, were so many dense perspectives of crowd and bustle, 
parti-colored night-caps, tobacco-pipes, blouse's, large boots, 
and shaggy heads of hair ; nothing at that hour denoted a 
day of rest, unless it were the appearance, here and there, of 
a family pleasure party, crammed into a bulky old lumbering 
cab ; or of some contemplative holiday-maker in the freest 
and easiest dishabille, leaning out of a low garret window, 
watching the drying of his newly polished shoes on the little 
parapet outside (if a gentleman), or the airing of her stock- 
ings in the sun (if a lady), with calm anticipation. 

Once clear of the never-to-be-forgotten-or-forgiven pave- 
ment which surrounds Paris, the first three days of travelling 
towards Marseilles are quiet and monotonous enough. To 
Sens. To Avallon. To Chalons. A sketch of one day's 
proceedings is a sketch of all three ; and here it is. 

We have four horses, and one postilion, who has a very 
long whip, and drives his team, something like the Courier of 
Saint Petersburg!! in the circle at Astley ; s or Franconi's : only 
he sits his own horse instead of standing on him. The im- 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y 



417 



mense jack-boots worn by these postilions, are sometimes a 
century or two old ; and are so ludicrously disproportionate 
to the wearer's foot, that the spur, which is put where his own 
heel comes, is generally halfway up the leg of the boots. The 
man often comes out of the stable-yard, with his whip in his 
hand and his shoes on, and brings out, in both hands, one 
boot at a time, which he plants on the ground by the side of 
his horse, with great gravity, until everything is ready. When 
it is — and oh Heaven ! the noise they make about it ! — he 
gets into the boots, shoes and all, or is hoisted into them by 
a couple of friends ; adjusts the rope harness, embossed by 
the labors of innumerable pigeons in the stables ; makes all 
the horses kick and plunge ; cracks his whip like a madman ; 
shouts " En route — Hi ! " and away we go. He is sure to 
have a contest with his horse before we have gone very far • 
and then he calls him a Thief, and a Brigand, and a Pig, and 
what not ; and beats him about the. head as if he were made 
of wood. 

There is little more than one variety in the appearance of 
the country, for the first two days. From a dreary plain, to 
an interminable avenue, and from an interminable avenue to 
a dreary plain again. Plenty of vines there are in the open 
fields, but of a short low kind, and not trained in festoons, 
but about straight sticks. Beggars innumerable there are, 
everywhere ; but an extraordinarily scanty population, and 
fewer children than I ever encountered. I don't believe we 
saw a hundred children between Paris and Chalons. Queer 
old towns, draw-bridged and walled : with odd little towers at 
the angles, like grotesque faces, as if the wall had put a mask 
on, and were staring down into the moat ; other strange little 
towers, in gardens and fields, and down lanes, and in farm- 
yards : all alone, and always round, with a peaked roof, and 
never used for any purpose at all ; ruinous buildings of all 
sorts ; sometimes an hotel de ville, sometimes a guard-house, 
sometimes a dwelling-house, sometimes a chateau with a rank 
garden, prolific in dandelion, and watched over by extinguisher- 
topped turrets, and blink-eyed little casements ; are the stand- 
ard objects, repeated over and over again. Sometimes we pass 
a village inn, with a crumbling wall belonging to it, and a pep 
feet town of out-houses ; and painted over the gateway, " Stab- 
ling for Sixty Horses ;." as indeed there might be stabling for 
sixty score, were there any horses to be stabled there, or any- 
body resting there, or anything: stirring about the place but a 



4 : 8 PIC TURES FR OM IT A I Y. 

dangling bush, indicative of the wine inside: which flutters 
idly in the wind, in lazy keeping with everything else, and 
certainly is never in a green old age, though always so old as 
to be dropping to pieces. And all day long, strange little nar- 
row wagons, in strings of six or eight, bringing cheese from 
Switzerland, and frequently in charge, the whole line, of one 
man, or even boy— and he very often asleep in the foremost 
cart — come jingling past : the horses drowsily ringing the bells 
upon their harness, and looking as if they thought (no doubt 
they do) their great blue woolly furniture, of immense weight 
and thickness, with a pair of grotesque horns growing out of 
the collar, very much too warm for the Midsummer weather. 

Then, there is the Diligence, twice or thrice a-day • with 
the dusty outsides in blue frocks, like butchers ; and the in- 
sides in white nightcaps ; and its cabriolet head on the roof, 
nodding and shaking, like an idiot's head • and its Young- 
France passengers staring out of window, with beards down 
to their waists; and blue spectacles awfully shading their war- 
like eyes, and very big sticks clenched in their National grasp. 
Also the Malle Poste, with only a couple of passengers, tear- 
ing along at a real good dare-devil pace, and out of sight in 
no time. Steady old Cures come jolting past, now and then, 
in such ramshackle, rusty, musty, clattering coaches as no 
Englishman would believe in ; and bony women dawdle about 
in solitary places, holding cows by ropes while they feed, or 
digging and hoeing or doing field-work of a more laborious 
kind, or representing real shepherdesses with their flocks — to 
obtain an adequate idea of which pursuit and its followers, in 
any country, it is only necessary to take any pastoral poem, 
or picture, and imagine to yourself whatever is most exquisite- 
ly and widely unlike the descriptions therein contained. 

You have been travelling along, stupidly enough, as you 
generally do in the last stage of the day ; and the ninety-six 
bells upon the horses — twenty-four a-.piece — have been ringing 
sleepily in your ears for half an hour or so ; and it has be- 
come a very jog-trot, monotonous, tiresome sort of business ; 
and you have been thinking deeply about the dinner you will 
have at the next stage ; when, down at the end of the long 
avenue of trees through which you are travelling, the first 
indication of a town appears, in the shape of some straggling 
cottages : and the carriage begins to rattle and roll over a 
horribly uneven pavement. As if the equipage were a great 
firework, and the mere sight of smoking cottage chimney had 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 419 

lighted it, instantly it begins to crack and splutter, as if the 
very devil were in it. Crack, crack, crack, crack. Crack, 
crack-crack. Crick-crack. Crick-crack. Helo ! Hola ! Vite ! 
Voleur ! Brigand ! Hi hi hi ! En r-r-r-r-r-route ! Whip, 
wheels, driver, stones, beggars, children, crack, crack, crack ; 
helo ! hola ! charite pour l'amour de Dieu ! crick-crack-crick- 
crack ; crick, crick, crick, bump, jolt, crack, bump, crick-crack ; 
round the corner, up the narrow street, down the paved hill on 
the other side ; in the gutter ; bump, bump ; jolt, jog, crick, 
crick, crick ; crack, crack, crack ; into the shop-windows on 
the left hand side of the street, preliminary to a sweeping 
turn into the wooden archway on the right ; rumble, rumble, 
rumble; clatter, clatter, clatter; crick, crick, crick; and here 
we are in the yard of the H6tel de l'Ecu d'Or ; used up, gone 
out, smoking, spent, exhausted ; but sometimes making a 
false start unexpectedly, with nothing coming of it — like a 
firework to the last ! 

The landlady of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is here ; and the 
landlord of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is here ; and the femme 
de chambre of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is here ; and a gen- 
tleman in a glazed cap, with a red beard like a bosom friend, 
who is staying at the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or, is here; and Mon- 
sieur le Cure is walking up and down in a corner of the yard 
by himself, with a shovel hat upon his head, and a black gown 
on his back, and a book in one hand, and an umbrella in the 
other; and everybody, except Monsieur le Cure, is open- 
mouthed and open-eyed, for the opening of the carriage-door. 
The landlord of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or, dotes to that extent 
upon the Courier, that he can hardly wait for his coming down 
from the box, but embraces his very legs and boot-heels as he 
descends. " My Courier ! My brave Courier ! My friend ! 
My brother ! " The landlady loves him, the femme de cham- 
bre blesses him, the garcon worships him. The Courier asks 
if his letter has been received ? It has, it has. Are the rooms 
prepared ? They are, they are. The best room for my noble 
Courier. The rooms of state for my gallant Courier ; the 
whole house is at the service of my best of friends ! He keeps 
his hand upon the carriage-door, and asks some other question 
to enhance the expectation. He carries a green leathern 
purse outside his coat, suspended by a belt. The idlers look 
at it ; one touches it. It is full of five-franc pieces. Murmurs 
of admiration are heard among the boys. The landlord falls 
upon the Courier's neck, and folds him to his breast. He is 



420 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

so much fatter than he was, he says ! He looks so rosy and 
so well ! 

The door is opened. Breathless expectation. The lady 
of the family gets out. Ah sweet lady ! Beautiful lady ! 
The sister of the lady of the family gets out. Great Heaven, 
Ma'amselle is charming ! First little boy gets out. Ah, what 
a beautiful little boy ! First little girl gets out. Oh, but that 
is an enchanting child ! Second little girl gets out, The 
landlady, yielding to the finest impulse of our common nature, 
catches her up in her arms ! Second little boy gets out. Oh, 
the sweet boy ! Oh, the tender little family ! The baby is 
handed out. Angelic baby ! The baby has topped every- 
thing. All the rapture is expended on the baby ! Then the 
two nurses tumble out ; and the enthusiasm swelling into 
madness, the whole fa3uily are swept up stairs as on a cloud ; 
while the idlers press about the carriage, arid look into it, and 
walk round it, and touch it. For it is something to touch a 
carriage that has held so many people. It is a legacy to 
leave one's children. 

The rooms are on the first floor, except the nursery for the 
night, which is a great rambling chamber, with four or five 
beds in it : through a dark passage, up two steps, down four, 
past a pump, across a balcony, and next door to the stable. 
The other sleeping apartments are large and lofty ; each with 
two small bedsteads, tastefully hung, like the windows, with 
red and white drapery. The sitting-room is famous. Dinner 
is already laid in it for three ; and the napkins are folded in 
cocked-hat fashion. The floors are of red tile. There are no 
carpets, and not much furniture to speak of ; but there is abun- 
dance of looking-glass, and there are large vases under glass 
shades, filled with artificial flowers ; and there are plenty of 
clocks. The whole party are in motion. The brave Courier, 
in particular, is everywhere : looking after the beds, having 
wine poured down his throat by his dear brother the landlord, 
and picking up green cucumbers — always cucumbers ; Heaven 
knows where he gets them — with which he walks about, one 
in each hand, like truncheons. 

Dinner is announced. There is very thin soup •; there are 
very large loaves — one apiece ; a fish ; four dishes afterwards \ 
some poultry afterwards ; a dessert afterwards ; and no lack 
of wine. There is not much in the dishes ; but they are very- 
good, and always ready instantly. When it is nearly dark, 
the brave Courier, having eaten the two cucumbers, sliced up 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 4 2 1 

in the contents of a pretty large decanter of oil, and another 
of vinegar, emerges from his retreat below, and proposes a 
visit to the Cathedral, whose massive tower frowns down upon 
the court-yard of the inn. Off we go ; and very solemn and 
grand it is, in tlie dim light : so dim at last, that the polite, 
old, lanthorn-jawed Sacristan has a feeble little bit of candle 
in his hand, to grope among the tombs with — and looks 
among the grim columns, very like a lost ghost who is search" 
ing for his own. 

Underneath the balcony, when we return, the inferior 
servants of the inn are supping in the open air, at a great 
table ; the dish, a stew of meat and vegetables, smoking hot, 
and served in the iron cauldron it was boiled in. They have 
a pitcher of thin Mine, and are very merry : merrier than the 
gentleman with the red beard, who is playing billiards in the 
light room on the left of the yard, where shadows, with cues 
in their hands, and cigars in their mouths, cross and recross 
the window, constantly. Still the thin Cure walks up and 
down alone, with his book and umbrella. And there he walks, 
and there the billiard-balls rattle, long after we are fast asleep. 

We are astir at six next morning. It is a delightful day, 
shaming yesterday's mud upon the carriage, if anything could 
shame a carriage, in a land where carriages are never cleaned. 
Everybody is brisk ; and as we finish breakfast, the horses 
come jingling into the yard from the Post-bouse. Everything 
taken out of the carriage is put back again. The brave Cou- 
rier announces that all is ready, after walking into every room, 
and looking all round it, to be certain that nothing is left be- 
hind. Everybody gets in. Everybody connected with the 
Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is again enchanted. The brave Courier 
runs into the house for a parcel containing cold fowl, sliced 
ham, bread, and biscuits, for lunch ; hands it into the coach ; 
and runs back again. 

. What has he got in his hand now ? More cucumbers ? 
No. A long strip of paper. It's the bill. 

The brave Courier has two belts on, this morning : one 
supporting the purse : another a mighty good sort of leathern 
bottle, filled to the throat with the best light Bordeaux wine in 
the house. He never pays the bill till this bottle is full. Then 
he disputes it. 

He. disputes it now, violently. He is still the landlord's 
brother, but by another father or mother. He is not so nearly 
related to him as he was last night. The landlord scratches 



422 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



his head. The brave Courier points to certain figures in the 
bill, and intimates that if they remain there, the Hotel de 
PEcu d'Or is thenceforth and for ever an hotel cle FEcii de 
cuivre. The landlord goes into a little counting-house. The 
brave Courier follows, forces the bill and a pen into his hand, 
and talks more rapidly than ever. The landlord takes the 
pen. The Courier smiles. The landlord makes an alteration. 
The Courier cuts a joke. The landlord is affectionate, but 
not weakly so. He bears it like a man. He shakes hands with 
his brave brother, but he don't hug him. Still, he loves his 
brother ; for he knows that he will be returning that way, one 
of these fine clays, with another family, and he foresees that 
his heart will yearn towards him again. The brave Courier 
traverses all round the carriage once, looks at the drag, 
inspects the wheels, jumps up, gives the word, and away we 

It is market morning. The market is held in the little 
square outside in front of the cathedral. It is crowded with 
men and women, in blue, in red, in green, in white ; with 
canvassed stalls ; and fluttering merchandise. The country 
people are grouped about, with their clean baskets before 
them. Here, the lace-sellers ; there, the butter and egg-sel- 
lers ; there, the fruit-sellers, there the shoe-makers. The 
whole place looks as if it were the stage of some great theatre, 
and the curtain had just run up, for a picturesque ballet. 
And there is the cathedral to boot : scene-like : all grim and 
swarthy, and mouldering, and cold : just splashing the pave- 
ment in one place with faint purple drops, as the morning sun, 
entering by a little window on the eastern side, struggles 
through some stained glass panes, on the western. 

In five minutes we have passed the iron cross, with a little 
ragged kneeling-place of turf before it, in the outskirts of the 
town \ and are again upon the road. 



LYONS, THE RHONE, AND THE GOBLIN OF 
AVIGNON. 

'■'■ -Chalons is a fair resting place, in right of its good inn on 
the -bank of the river, and the little steam-boats, gay with 
green and red paint, that come and go upon it : which make 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. ± 2 $ 

up a pleasant and refreshing scene, after the dusty roads. 
But, unless you would like to dwell on an enormous plain, 
with jagged rows of irregular poplars on it, that look in the 
distance like so many combs with broken teeth : and unless 
you would like to pass your life without the possibility of 
going up-hill, or going up anything but stairs : you would 
hardly approve of Chalons as a place of residence. 

You would probably like it better, however, than Lyons : 
which you may reach, if you will, in one of the before-men- 
tioned steamboats, in eight hours. 

What a city Lyons is ! Talk about people feeling, at 
certain unlucky times, as if they had tumbled from the clouds I 
Here is a whole town that is tumbled, anyhow, out of the sky ; 
having been first caught up, like other stones that tumble 
down from that region, out of fens and barren places, dismal 
to behold ! The two great streets through which the two 
great rivers dash, and all the little streets whose name is 
Legion, were scorching, blistering, and sweltering. The 
houses, high and vast, dirty to excess, rotten as old cheeses, 
and as thickly peopled. All up the hills that hem the city in, 
these houses swarm • and the mites inside were lolling out of 
the windows, and drying their ragged clothes on poles, and 
crawling in and out at the doors, and coming out to pant and 
gasp upon the pavement, and creeping in and out among huge 
piles and bales of fusty, musty, stifling goods ; and living, or 
rather not dying till their time should come, in an exhausted 
receiver. Every manufacturing town, melted into one, would 
hardly convey an impression of Lyons as it presented itself to 
me : for all the undrained, unscavengered qualities of a for- 
eign town, seemed grafted, there, upon the native miseries of 
a manufacturing one ■ and it bears such fruit as I would go 
some miles out of my way to avoid encountering again. 

In the cool of the evening : or rather in the faded heat of 
the day : we went to see the Cathedral, where divers old 
women, and a few dogs, were engaged in contemplation. 
There was no difference, in point of cleanliness, between its 
stone pavement and that of the streets ; and there was a wax 
saint, in a little box like a berth aboard a ship, with a glass 
front to it, whom Madame Tussaud would have nothing to say 
to, on any terms, and which even Westminster Abbey might 
be ashamed of. If you would know all about the architecture 
of this church, cr any other, its dates, dimensions, endow- 
ments, and history, b i: not written in Mr. Murray's Guide- 



424 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

Book, and may you not read it there, with thanks to him, as I 
did ! 

For this reason, I should abstain from mentioning the 
curious clock in Lyons Cathedral, if it were not for a small 
mistake I made, in connection with that piece of mechanism. 
The keeper of the church was very anxious it should be shown ; 
partly for the honor of the establishment and the town ; and 
partly, perhaps, because of his deriving a percentage from the 
additional consideration. However that may be, it was set 
in motion, and thereupon a host of little doors flew open, 
and innumerable little figures staggered out of them, and 
jerked themselves back again, with that special unsteadiness 
of purpose, and hitching in the gait, which usually attaches to 
figures that are moved by clock-work. Meanwhile, the Sa- 
cristan stood explaining these wonders, and pointing them 
out, severally, with a wand. There was a centre puppet of the 
Virgin Mary; and close to her, a small pigeon-hole, out of 
which another and a very ill-looking puppet made one of the 
most sudden plunges I ever saw accomplished : instantly flop- 
ping back again at sight of her, and banging his little dooi 
violently after him. Taking this to be emblematic of the 
victory over Sin and Death, and not at all unwilling to show 
that I perfectly understood the subject, in anticipation of the 
showman, I rashly said, "Aha ! The Evil Spirit. To be sure. 
He is very soon disposed of." "Pardon, Monsieur," said the 
Sacristan, with a polite motion of his hand, towards the little 
door, as if introducing somebody — " The Angel Gabriel ! " 

Soon after day-break next morning, we were steaming 
down the Arrowy Rhone, at the rate of twenty miles an hour, 
in a very dirty vessel full of merchandise, and with only three 
or four other passengers for our companions : among whom, 
the most remarkable was a silly, old, meek-faced, garlic-eating, 
immesurably polite Chevalier, with a dirty scrap of red ribbon 
hanging at his button-hole, as if he had tied it there to remind 
himself of something : as Tom Noddy, in the 'farce, ties knots 
in his pocket-handkerchief. 

For the last two days, we had seen great sullen hills, the 
first indications of the Alps, lowering in the distance. Now, 
we were rushing on beside them : sometimes close beside 
them : sometimes with an intervening slope, covered with 
vineyards. Villages and small towns hanging in mid-air, with 
great woods of olives seen through the light open towers of their 
churches, and clouds moving slowly on, upon the steep acclivity 



PIC TURES FR OM ITALY. 4 2 ^ 

behind them ; ruined castles perched on every eminence ; and 
scattered houses in the clefts and gullies of the hills ; made it 
very beautiful. The great height of these, too, making the 
buildings look so tiny, that they had all the charm of elegant 
models : their excessive whiteness, as contrasted with the 
brown rocks, or the sombre, deep, dull, heavy green of the 
olive-tree ; and the puny size, and little slow walk of the Lil- 
liputian men and women on the bank ; made a charming pic- 
ture. There were ferries out of number, too ; bridges ; the 
famous Pont d'Esprit, with I don't know how many arches ; 
towns where memorable wines are made ; Vallence, where 
Napoleon studied; and the noble river, bringing at every 
winding turn, new beauties into view. 

There lay before us, that same afternoon, the broken 
bridge of Avignon, and all the city baking in the sun ; yet 
with an under-done-pie-crust, battlemented wall, that never will 
be brown, though it bake for centuries. 

The grapes were hanging in clusters in the streets, and the 
brilliant Oleander was in full bloom everywhere. The streets 
are old and very narrow, but tolerably clean, and shaded 
by awnings stretched from house to house. Bright stuffs and 
handkerchiefs, curiosities, ancient frames of carved wood, old 
chairs, ghostly tables, saints, virgins, angels, and staring daubs 
of portraits, being exposed for sale beneath, it was very quaint 
and lively. All this was much set off, too, by the glimpses 
one caught, through a rusty gate standing ajar, of quiet sleepy 
court-yards, having stately old houses within, as silent as 
tombs. It was all very like one of the descriptions in the 
Arabian Nights. The three one-eyed Calenders might have 
knocked at any one of those doors till the street rang again, 
and the porter who persisted in asking questions — the man 
who had the delicious purchases put into Iris basket in the 
morning — might have opened it quite naturally. 

After breakfast next morning, we sallied forth to see the 
lions. Such a delicious breeze was blowing in, from the north- 
as made the walk delightful : though the pavement-stones, 
and stones of the walls and houses, were far too hot to have 
a hand laid on them comfortably. 

We went, first of all, up a rocky height, to the cathedral: 
where Mass was performing to an auditory very like that of 
Lyons, namely, several old women, a baby, and a very, self- 
possessed dog, who had marked out for himself a little course 
or platform for exercise, beginning at the altar-rails and ending 



42 6 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

at the door, up and down which constitutional walk he trotted 
during the service, as methodically and calmly, as any old 
gentleman out of doors. It is a bare old church, and the 
paintings in the roof are sadly defaced by time and damp 
weather ; but the sun was shining in, splendidly, through the 
red curtains of the windows, and glittering on the altar furni- 
ture ; and it looked as bright and cheerful as need be. 

Going apart, in this church, to see some painting which 
was being executed in fresco by a French artist and his pupil, 
I. was led to observe more closely than I might otherwise 
have done, a great number of votive offerings with which the 
walls of the different chapels were profusely hung. I will not 
say decorated, for they were very roughly and comically got 
up ; most likely by poor sign-painters, who eke out their living 
in that way. They were all little pictures : each representing 
some sickness or calamity from which the person placing it 
there, had escaped, through the interposition of his or her \ya- 
tron saint, or of the Madonna ; and I may refer to them as good 
specimens of the class generally. They are abundant in Italy. 

In a grotesque squareness of outline, and impossibility of 
perspective, they are not unlike the woodcuts in old books ; 
but they were oil-paintings, and the artist, like the painter of 
the Primrose family, had not been sparing of his colors. In 
one, a lady was having a toe amputated — an operation which 
a saintly personage had sailed into the room, upon a couch, 
to superintend. In another, a lady was lying in bed, tucked 
up very tight and prim, and staring with much composure at 
a tripod, with a slop-basin on it ; the usual form of washing- 
stand, and the only piece of furniture, besides the bedstead, in 
her chamber. One would never have supposed her to be 
labouring under any complaint, beyond the inconvenience of 
being miraculously wide awake, if the painter had not hit upon 
the idea of putting all her family on their knees in one corner, 
with their legs sticking out behind them on the floor, like boot- 
trees. Above whom, the Virgin, on a kind of blue divan, 
promised to restore the patient. In another case, a lady was 
in the very act of being run over immediately outside the city 
walls, by a sort of piano-forte van. But the Madonna was 
there again. Whether the supernatural appearance had star- 
tled the horse ( a bay griffin), or whether it was invisible to 
him, I don't know ; but he was galloping away, ding dong, 
without the smallest reverence or compunction. On every 
picture '* Ex voto '! was painted in yellow capitals in the sky, 



PICTURES FROM- ITALY. 427 

Though votive offerings were not unknown in Pagan 
Temples, and are evidently among the many compromises 
made between the false religion and the true, when the true 
was in its infancy, I could wish that all the other compromises 
were as harmless. Gratitude and Devotion are Christian 
qualities 3 and a grateful, humble, Christian spirit may dictate 
the observance. 

Hard by the cathedral stands the ancient Palace of the 
Popes, of which one portion is now a common jail, and an- 
other a noisy barrack : while gloomy suites of state apartments 
shut up and deserted, mock their own old state and glory, 
like the embalmed bodies of kings. But we neither went 
there, to see state rooms, nor soldiers' quarters, nor a com- 
mon jail, though we dropped some money into a prisoners' 
box outside, whilst the prisoners, themselves, looked through 
the iron bars, high up, and watched us eagerly. We went to 
see the ruins of the dreadful rooms in which the Inquisition 
used to sit. 

A little, old, swarthy woman with a pair of flashing black 
eyes, — proof that the world hadn't conjured clown the devil 
within her though it had had between sixty and seventy years 
to clo it in, — came out of the Barrack Cabaret, of which she 
was the keeper, with some large keys in her hands, and mar- 
shalled us the way that we should go. How she told us, on 
the way, that she was a Government Officer (concierge du palais 
apostolique), and had been, for I don't know how many years ; 
and how she had shown these dungeons to princes ; and how 
she was the best of dungeon demonstrators ; and how she 
had resided in the palace from an infant, — had been born 
there, if I recollect right, — I needn't relate. But such a fierce, 
little, rapid, sparkling, energetic she-devil I never beheld. 
She was alight and flaming, all the time. Her action was 
violent in the extreme. She never spoke, without stopping 
expressly for the purpose. She stamped her feet, clutched us 
by the arms, flung herself into attitudes, hammered against 
walls with her keys, for mere emphasis : now whispered as if 
the Inquisition were there still • now shrieked as if she were 
on the rack herself • and had a mysterious, hag-like way with 
her forefinger, when approaching the remains of some new 
horror — looking back and walking stealthily, and making 
horrible grimaces — that might alone have qualified her to 
walk up and down a sick man's counterpane, to the exclu- 
sion of all other figures, through a whole fever. 



42 8 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

Passing through the court-yard, among groups of idle sol- 
diers, we turned off by agate, which this She-Goblin unlocked 
for our admission, and locked again behind us : and entered 
a narrow court, rendered narrower by fallen stones and heaps 
of rubbish ; part of it choking irp the mouth of a ruined sub- 
terranean passage, that once communicated (or is said to have 
done so) with another castle on the opposite bank of the river. 
Close to this court-yard is a dungeon — we stood within it, in 
another minute- — in the dismal tower des oubliettes, where Rienzi 
Was imprisoned, fastened by an iron chain to the very wall that 
stands there now, but shut out from the sky which now T looks 
down into it. A few steps brought us to the Cachots, in which 
the prisoners of the Inquisition were confined for forty-eight 
hours after their capture, without food or drink, that their con- 
stancy might be shaken, even before they were confronted with 
their gloomy judges. The day has not got in there yet. They 
are still small cells, shut in by four unyielding, close, hard 
walls ; still profoundly dark ; still massively doored and fast- 
ened, as of old. 

Goblin, looking back as I have described, went softly on, 
into a vaulted chamber, now used as a store-room : once the 
chapel of the Holy Office. The place where the tribunal sat, 
was plain. The platform might have been removed but yester- 
day. Conceive the parable of the Good Samaritan having 
been painted on the wall of one of these Inquisition cham- 
bers ! But it was, and may be traced there yet. 

High up in the jealous wall, are niches where the faltering 
replies of the accused were heard and noted down. Many of 
them had been brought out of the very cell we had just looked 
into, so awfully ; along the same stone passage. We had 
n-odden in their very footsteps. 

I am gazing round me, with the horror that the place in- 
spires, when Goblin clutches me by the wrist, and lays, not her 
skinny finger, but the handle of a key, upon her lip. She 
invites me, with a jerk, to follow her. I do so. She leads 
me out into a room adjoining— a rugged room, with a funnel- 
shaped, contracting roof,, open at the top, to the bright day. 
I ask her what it is. She folds her arms, leers hideously, 
and stares. I ask again. She glances round, to see that all 
the little company are there \ sits down upon a mound of 
stones ; throws up her arms, and yells out, like a fiend, "La 
Salle de la Question ! " 

The Chamber of Torture ! And the roof was made of 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



429 



that shape to stifle the victim's cries ! Oh Goblin, Goblin, let 
us think of this awhile, in silence. Peace, Goblin ! Sit with 
your short arms crossed on your short legs, upon that heap of 
stones, for only five. minutes, and then flame out again. 

Minutes ! Seconds are not marked upon the Palace clock, 
when, with her eyes flashing fire, Goblin is up, in the middle 
of the chamber, describing, with her sun-burnt arms, a wheel 
of heavy blows. Thus it ran round ! cries Goblin. Mash, 
mash, mash ! An endless routine of heavy hammers. Mash, 
mash, mash ! upon the sufferer's limbs. See the stone trough ! 
says Goblin. For the water torture ! Gurgle, swill, bloat, 
burst, for the Redeemer's honor ! Suck the bloody rag, deep 
clown into your unbelieving body, Heretic, at every breath you 
draw ! And when the executioner plucks it out, reeking with 
the smaller mysteries of God's own Image, know us for His 
chosen servants, true believers in the Sermon on the Mount, 
elect disciples of Him who never did a miracle but to heal : 
who never struck a man with palsy, blindness, deafness, dumb- 
ness, madness, any one affliction of mankind ; and never 
stretched His blessed hand out, but to give relief and ease ! 

See ! cries Goblin. There the furnace was. There they 
made the irons red-hot. Those holes supported the sharp 
stake, on which the tortured persons hung poised : dangling 
with their whole weight from the roof. " But ; " and Goblin 
whispers this; "Monsieur has heard of this tower? Yes? 
Let Monsieur look down, then ! " 

A cold air, laden with an earthy smell, falls upon the face 
of Monsieur ; for she has opened, while speaking, a trap- 
door in the wall. Monsieur looks in. Downward to the bot- 
tom, upward to the top, of a steep, dark, lofty tower : very 
dismal, very dark, very cold. The Executioner of the Inqui- 
sition, says Goblin, edging in her head to look down also, 
flung those who were past all further torturing, down here. 
ki But look ! does Monsieur see the black stains on the wall ? " 
A glance, over his shoulder, at Goblin's keen eye, shows 
Monsieur — and would without the aid of the directing-key — 
where they are. " What are they ? " " Blood ! " 

In October, 1791, when the Revolution was at its height 
here, sixty persons : men and women (" and priests," says 
Goblin, " priests ") : were murdered, and hurled, the dying and 
the dead, into this dreadful pit, where a quantity of quicklime 
was tumbled down upon their bodies. Those ghastly tokens 
of the massacre were soon no more ; but while one stone of 
1& 



43° 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V 



the strong building in which the deed was done, remains upon 
another, there they will lie in the memories of men, as plain 
to see as the splashing of their blood upon the wall is now. 

Was it a portion _of the great scheme of Retribution, that 
the cruel deed should be committed in this place ! That a part 
of the atrocities and monstrous institutions, which had been, for 
scores 'of years, at work, to change men's nature, should in its 
last service, tempt them with the ready means of gratifying 
their furious and beastly rage ? Should enable them to show 
themselves, in the height of their frenzy, no worse than a 
great, solemn, legal establishment, in the height of its power ! 
No worse ! Much better. They used the Tower of the For- 
gotten, in the name of Liberty — their liberty ; an earth-born 
creature, nursed in the black mud of the Bastile moats and 
dungeons, and necessarily betraying many evidences of its 
unwholesome bringing-up — but the Inquisition used it in the 
name of Heaven. 

Goblin's finger is lifted ; and she steals out again, into the 
Chapel of the Holy Office. She stops at a certain part of 
the flooring. Her great effect is at hand. She waits for the 
rest. She darts at the brave Courier, who is explaining some- 
thing * hits him a sounding rap on the hat with the largest 
key ; and bids him be silent She assembles us all, round a 
little trap-door in the floor, as round a grave. 

" Voila ! " she darts down at the ring, and flings the door 
open with a crash, in her goblin energy, though it is no light 
weight. "Voila les oubliettes! Voila les oubliettes! Sub- 
terranean ! Frightful ! Black ! Terrible ! Deadly ! Les oub- 
liettes de lTnquisition ! " 

My blood ran cold, as I looked from Goblin down into the 
vaults, where these forgotten creatures, with recollections of 
the world outside : of wives, friends, children, brothers : 
starved to death, and made the stones ring with their unavail- 
ing groans. But, the thrill I felt on seeing the accursed wall 
below, decayed and broken through, and the sun shining in 
through its gaping wounds, was like a sense of victory and 
triumph. I felt exalted with the proud delight of living in these 
degenerate times, to see it. As if I were the hero of some 
high achievement ! The light in the doleful vaults was typical 
of the light that has streamed in, on all persecution in God's 
name, but which is not yet at its noon ! It cannot look more 
lovely to a blind man newly restored to sight, than to a travel- 
ler who sees it, calmly and majestically, treading down the 
darkness of that Infernal Well. 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 43 r 



AVIGNON TO GENOA. 



Goblin, having shown les oubliettes, felt that her great coup 
was struck. She let the door fall with a crash, and stood 
upon it with her arms a-kimbo, sniffing prodigiously. 

When we left the place, I accompanied her into her house, 
under the outer gateway of the fortress, to buy a little history 
of the building. Her cabaret-, a dark low room, lighted by 
small windows, sunk in the thick wall — in the softened light, 
and with its forge-like chimney ; its little counter by the door, 
with bottles, jars, and glasses on it ; its household implements 
and scraps of dress against the wall; and a sober-looking 
woman (she must have a congenial life of it, with Goblin,) 
knitting at the door- — looked exactly like a picture by Ostade. 

I walked round the building on the outside, in a sort of 
dream, and yet with the delightful sense of having awakened 
from it, of which the light, down in the vaults, had given me 
the assurance. The immense thickness and giddy height of 
the walls, the enormous strength of the massive towers, the 
great extent of the building, its gigantic proportions, frowning 
aspect, and barbarous irregularity, awakened awe and wonder. 
The recollection of its opposite old uses : an impregnable 
fortress, a luxurious palace, a horrible prison, a place of tor- 
ture, the court of the Inquisition : at one and the same time, 
a house of feasting, fighting, religion, and blood; gives to 
every stone in its huge form a fearful interest, and imparts 
new meaning to its incongruities. I could think of little, how- 
ever, then, or long afterwards, but the sun in the dungeons. 
The palace coming down to be the lounging place of noisy 
soldiers, and being forced to echo their rough talk, and com- 
mon oaths, and to have their garments fluttering from its dirty 
windows, was some reduction of its state, and something to 
rejoice at ; but the day in its cells, and the sky for the roof 
of its chambers of cruelty — -that was its desolation and defeat ! 
If I had seen it in a blaze from ditch to rampart, I should 
have felt that not that light, nor all the light in the fire that 
burns, could waste it, like the sunbeams in its secret council- 
chamber, and its prisons. 

Before I quit this Palace of the Popes, let me translate 



43- 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



from the little history I mentioned just now, a short anecdote 
quite appropriate to itself, connected with its adventures. 

" An ancient tradition relates, that in 1441, a nephew of 
Pierre cle Lude, the Pope's legate, seriously insulted some 
distinguished ladies of Avignon, whose relations, in revenge,- 
seized the young man, and horribly mutilated him. For several 
years the legate kept his revenge within his own breast, but 
he was not the less resolved upon its gratification at last. He 
even made, in the fulness of time, advances towards a coin 
plete reconciliation ; and when their apparent sincerity had 
prevailed, he invited to a splendid banquet, in this palace, cer- 
tain families, whole families, whom he sought to exterminate. 
The utmost gayety animated the repast ; but the measures of 
the legate were well taken. When the dessert was on the 
board, a Swiss presented himself, with the announcement that 
a strange ambassador solicited an extraordinary audience. 
The legate, excusing himself, for the moment, to his guests, 
retired, followed by his officers. Within a few minutes after- 
wards, five hundred persons were reduced to ashes : the whole 
of that wing of the buildings having been blown into the air 
with a terrible explosion ! " 

After seeing the churches (I will not trouble you with 
churches just now), we left Avignon that afternoon. The heat 
being very great, the roads outside the walls were strewn with 
people fast asleep in every little slip of shade, and with lazy 
groups, half asleep and half awake, who were waiting until 
the sun should be low enough to admit of their playing bowls 
among the burnt-up trees, and on the dusty road. The harvest 
here, was already gathered in, and mules and horses were 
treading out the corn in the helds. We came, at dusk, upon 
a wild and hilly country, once famous for brigands ; and 
travelled slowly up a steep ascent. So we went on, until 
eleven at nigdit, when we halted at the town of Aix (within two 
stages of Marseilles) to sleep. 

The hotel, with all the blinds and shutters closed to keep 
the light and heat out, was comfortable and airy next morning, 
and the town was very clean ; but so hot, and so intensely 
light, that when I walked out at noon it was like coming sud- 
denly from the darkened room into crisp blue fire. The air 
was so very clear, that distant hills and rocky points appeared 
within an hour's walk; while the town immediately at hand — ■ 
with a kind of blue wind between me and it — seemed to be 
white hot, and to be throwing off a fiery air from the surface. 



PICTURES 1'JWM //'Air. _p-. 

We left this town towards evenings and took the road tc 
Marseilles. A dusty road it was ; the houses shut up close • 
and the vines powdered white. At nearly all the cottage doors, 
women were peeling and slicing onions into earthen bowls for 
supper. So they had been doing last night all the way from 
Avignon. We passed one or two shady dark chateaux, sur- 
rounded by trees, and embellished with cool basins of water : 
which were the more refreshing to behold, from the great 
scarcity of such residences on the road we had travelled. As 
we approached Marseilles, the road began to be covered with 
holiday people. Outside the public-houses were parties smok- 
ing, drinking, playing draughts and cards, and (once) dancing. 
But dust, dust, dust, everywhere. We went on, through a 
long, straggling, dirty suburb, thronged with people ; having 
on our left a dreary slope of land, ton which the country-houses 
of the Marseilles merchants, always staring white, are jumbled 
and heaped without the slighest order : backs, fronts, sides, 
and gables towards all points of the compass ; until, at last, 
we entered the town. 

I was there, twice or thrice afterwards, in fair weather and 
foul ; and I am afraid there is no doubt that it is a dirty and 
disagreeable place. But the prospect, from the fortified 
heights, of the beautiful Mediterranean, with its lovely rocks 
and islands, is most delightful. These heights are a desirable 
retreat, for less picturesque reason — as an escape from a com- 
pound of Vile smells perpetually arising from a great harbor 
full of stagnant water, and befouled by the refuse of innumer- 
able ships with all sorts of cargoes : which, in hot weather, 
is dreadful in the last degree. 

There were foreign sailors, of all nations, in the streets ; 
with red shirts, blue shirts, buff shifts, tawny shirts, and shirts 
of orange color • with red caps, blue caps, green caps, great 
beards, and no beards ; in Turkish turbans, glazed English 
hats, and Neapolitan head-dresses. There were the towns- 
people sitting in clusters on the pavement, or airing themselves 
on the tops of their houses, or walking up and down the closest 
and least airy of Boulevards ; and there were crowds of fierce- 
looking people of the lower sort, blocking up the way, con- 
stantly. . In the very heart of all this stir and uproar, was the 
common madhouse ; a low, contracted, miserable building, 
looking straight upon the street, without the smallest screen 
or court-yard • where chattering mad-men and mad-women 
were peeping out, through 'fusty bars, at the staring faces be- 



43 4 PICTURES FROM i TALK 

low, while the sun, darting fiercely aslant into their littte cell^ 
seemed to dry up their brains, and worry them, as if they were 
baited by a pack of dogs. 

We were pretty well accommodated at the Hotel du Pa- 
radis, situated in a narrow street of very high houses, with a 
hairdresser's shop opposite, exhibiting in one of its windows 
two full-length waxen ladies, twirling round and round : which 
so enchanted the hairdresser himself, that he and his family 
sat in arm-chairs, and in cool undresses, on the pavement out 
side, enjoying the gratification of the passers-by, with lazy 
dignity. The family had retired to rest when we went to bed, 
at midnight; but the hairdresser (a corpulent man in drab 
slippers) was still sitting there, with his legs stretched out 
before him, and evidently couldn't bear to have the shutters 
put up. * 

Next clay we went down to the harbor, where the sailors 
of all nations were discharging and taking in cargoes of all 
kinds : fruits, wines, oils, silks, stuffs, velvets, and every man- 
ner of merchandise. Taking one of a great number of lively 
little boats with gay-striped awnings, we rowed away, under 
the sterns of great ships, under tow-ropes and cables, against 
and among other boats, and very much too near the sides of 
vessels that were faint with oranges, to the Marie Antoinette, 
a handsome steamer bound for Genoa, lying near the mouth 
of the harbor. By and by, the carriage, that unwieldy " trifle 
from the Pantechnicon," on a flat barge, bumping against 
everything, and giving occasion for a prodigious quantity of 
oaths and grimaces, came stupidly alongside ; and by live 
o'clock we were steaming out in the open sea. The vessel 
was beautifully clean ; the meals were served under an awning 
on deck ; the night was calm and clear ; the quiet beauty of 
the sea and sky unspeakable. 

We were off Nice, early next morning, and coasted along, 
within a few miles of the Cornice road (of which mere in its 
place) nearly all day. We could see Genoa before three ; and 
watching it as it gradually developed its splendid amphitheatre, 
terrace rising above terrace, garden above garden, palace 
above palace, height upon height, was ample occupation for us, 
till we ran into the stately harbor. Having been duly aston- 
ished, here, by the sight of a few Cappucir.i monks who were 
watching the fair-weighing of some wood upon the wharf, we 
drove off to Albaro, two miles distant, where we had engaged 
a house, 



■PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



435 



The way lay through the main streets, but not through the 
Strada Nuova, or the Strada Balbi, which are the famous 
streets of palaces. I never in my life was so dismayed ! The 
v.oiJerful novelty of everything, the unusual smells, the un- 
accountable filth (though it is reckoned the cleanest of Italian 
towns), the disorderly jumbling of dirty houses, one upon the 
roof of another ; the passages more squalid and more close 
than any in St- Giles's or old Paris ; in and out of which, not 
vagabonds, but well-dressed women, with white veils and great 
fans, were passing and repassing; the perfect absence of re- 
semblance in any dwelling-house, or shop, or wall, or post, or 
pillar, to anything one had ever seen before ; and the disheart- 
ening dirt, discomfort, and decay ; perfectly confounded me. 
I fell into a dismal reverie. I am conscious of a feverish and 
bewildered vision of saints and virgins' shrines at the street cor- 
ners — of great numbers of friars, monks, and soldiers — of vast 
red curtains, waving in the door-ways of the churches — of 
always going up hill, and yet seeing every other street and 
passage going higher up — of fruit-stalls, with fresh lemons and 
oranges hanging in garlands made of vine-leaves — of a guard- 
house, and a drawbridge — and some gateways — -and vendors 
of iced water, sitting with little trays upon the margin of the 
kennel — and this is all the consciousness I had until I was set 
down in a rank, dull, weedy court-yard, attached to a kind of 
pink jail ; and was told I lived there. 

I little thought, that day, that I should ever come to have 
an attachment for the very stones in the streets of Genoa, and 
to look back upon the city with affection as connected with 
many hours of happiness and quiet ! But these are my first 
impressions honestly set down ; and how they changed, I will 
set down too. At present, let us breathe after this long- 
winded journey. 



GENOA AND ITS NEIGHBORHOOD. 

The first impressions of such a place as Albaro, the sub- 
urb of Genoa, where I am now, as my American friends would 
say, " located,'' can hardly fail, I should imagine, to be 
mournful and disappointing. It requires a little time and use 



43 6 PIC TURES FR OM ITALY. 

to overcome the feeling of depression consequent, at first, on 
so much ruin and neglect. Novelty, pleasant to most people, 
is particularly delightful, I think, to me. I am not easily dis- 
pirited when I have the means of pursuing my own fancies 
and occupations ; and I believe I have some natural aptitude 
for accommodating myself to circumstances. But, as yet, I 
stroll about here, in all the holes and corners of the neighbor- 
hood, in a perpetual state of forlorn surprise -• and returning 
to my villa : the Villa Bagnerello (it sounds romantic, but 
Signor Bagnerello is a butcher hard by) ■• have sufficient occu- 
pation in pondering over my new experiences, and comparing 
them, very much to my own amusement, with my expectations, 
until I wander out again. 

The Villa Bagnerello : or the Pink Jail, a far more expres- 
sive name for the mansion : is in one of the most splendid sit- 
uations imaginable. The noble bay of Genoa, with the deep 
blue Mediterranean, lies stretched out near at hand j mon- 
strous old desolate houses and palaces are dotted all about ■; 
lofty hills, with their tops often hidden in the clouds, and 
with strong forts perched high up on their craggy sides, are 
close upon the left • and in front, stretching from the walls of 
the house, down to a ruined chapel which stands upon the bold 
and picturesque rocks on the sea-shore, are green vineyards, 
where you may wander all day long in partial shade, through 
interminable vistas of grapes, trained on a rough trelliswork 
across the narrow paths. 

This sequestered spot is approached by lanes so very nar- 
row, that when we arrived at the Custom-house, we found the 
people here had taken the measure of the narrowest among 
them, and were waiting to apply it to the carriage ; which 
ceremony was gravely performed in the street, while we all 
stood by in breathless suspense. It was found to be a very 
tight fit, but just a possibility, and no more — as I am reminded 
every day, by the sight of various large holes which it punched 
in the walls on either side as it came along. We are more 
fortunate, I am told, than an old lady, who took a house in 
these parts not long ago, and who stuck fast in her carriage in 
a lane ; and as it was impossible to open one of the doors, 
she was obliged to submit to the indignity of being hauled 
through one of the little front windows, like a harlequin. 

When you have got through these narrow lanes, you come 
to an archway, imperfectly stopped up by a rusty old gate — 
my gate. The rusty old gate has a bell to correspond, which 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 437 

you ring as long as you like, and which nobody answers, as it 
has no connection whatever with the house. But there is a 
rusty old knocker, too — very loose, so that it slides round 
when you touch it — and if you learn the trick of it, and knock 
long enough, somebody comes. The brave Courier comes, 
and gives you admittance. You walk into a seedy little gar- 
den, all wild and weedy, from which the vineyard opens ; 
cross it, enter a square hall like a cellar, walk up a cracked 
marble staircase, and pass into a most enormous room with a 
vaulted roof and whitewashed walls : not unlike a great 
Methodist chapel. This is the sala. It has five windows 
and five doors, and is decorated with pictures which would 
gladden the heart of one of those picture-cleaners in London 
who hang up, as a sign, a picture divided, like death and the 
lacly, at the top of the old ballad : which always leaves you in 
a state of uncertainty whether the ingenious professor has 
cleaned one half, or dirtied the other. The furniture of this 
sala is a sort of red brocade. All the chairs are immovable, 
and the sofa weighs several tons. 

On the same floor, and opening out of this same chamber, 
are dining-room, drawing-room, and divers bed-rooms : each 
with a multiplicity of doors and windows. Up stairs are di- 
vers other gaunt chambers, and a kitchen ; and down stairs is 
another. kitchen, wdiich, with all sorts of strange contrivances 
for burning charcoal, looks like an alchemical laboratory. 
There are also some half-dozen small ,sitting-rooms, where the 
servants in this hot July, may escape from the heat of the fire, 
and where the brave Courier plays all sorts of musical instru- 
ments of his own manufacture, all the eveaing long. A 
mighty old, wandering, ghostly, echoing, grim, bare house it 
is, as ever I beheld or thought of. 

There is a little vine-covered terrace, opening from the 
drawing-room ; and under this terrace, and forming one side 
of the little garden, is what used to be the stable. It is now 
a cow-house, and has three cows in it, so that we get new milk 
by the bucketful. There is no pasturage near, and they 
never go out, but are constantly lying down, and surfeiting 
themselves with vines leaves — perfect Italian cows enjoying 
the dolce far ' niente all day long. They are presided over, 
and slept with, by an old man named Antonio, and his son ; 
two burnt-sienna natives with naked legs and feet, who wear, 
each, a shirt, a pair of trousers, and a red sash, with a relic, 
or some sacred charm like the bonbon off a twelfth-cake, 



438 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



hanging round the neck. The old man is very anxious to 
convert me to the Catholic faith ; and exhorts me frequently. 
We sit upon a stone by the door sometimes in the evening, like 
Robinson Crusoe and Friday reversed • and he generally re- 
lates, towards my conversion, an abridgment of the History 
of Saint Peter — chiefly, I believe, from the unspeakable de- 
light he has in the imitation of the cock. 

The view, as I have said, is charming ; but in the day you 
must keep the lattice-blinds close shut, or the sun would drive 
you mad ; and when the sun goes down you must shut up all 
the windows, or the mosquitoes would tempt you to commit 
suicide. So at this time of the year, you don't see much of 
the prospect within doors. As for the flies, you don't mind 
them. Nor the fleas, whose size is prodigious, and whose name 
is Legion, and who populate the coach-house to that extent 
that I daily expect to see the carriage going off bodily, drawn 
by myriads of industrious fleas in harness. The rats are kept 
away, quite comfortably, by scores of lean cats, who roam 
about the garden for that purpose. The lizards, of course, 
nobody cares for ; they play in the sun, and don't bite. The 
little scorpions are merely curious. The beetles are rather 
late, and have not appeared yet. The frogs are company. 
There is a preserve of them in the grounds of the next villa ; 
and after nightfall, one would think that scores upon scores 
of women in pattens were going up and down a wet stone 
pavement without a moment's cessation. That is exactly the 
noise they make. 

The ruined chapel, on the picturesque and beautiful sea- 
shore, was dedicated, once upon a time, to Saint John the 
Baptist.: I believe there is a legend that Saint John's bones 
were received there, with various solemnities, when they were 
first brought to Genoa • for Genoa possesses them to this day. 
When there is any uncommon tempest at sea, they are brought 
out and exhibited to the raging weather, which they never fail 
to calm. In consequence of this connection of Saint John with 
the city, great numbers of the common people are christened 
Giovanni Baptista, which latter name is pronounced in the 
Genoese patois " Batcheetcha," like a sneeze. To hear every- 
body calling everybody else Batcheetcha, on a Sunday, or 
festa-day, when there are crowds in the streets, is not a little 
singular and amusing to a stranger. 

The narrow lanes have great villas opening into them, 
whose walls (outside walls, I mean) are profusely painted with 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 



439 



all sorts of subjects, grim and holy. But time and the sea-air 
have nearly obliterated them ; and they look like the entrance 
to Vauxhall Gardens on a sunny day. The court-yards of 
these houses are overgrown with grass and weeds ; all sorts of 
hideous patches cover the bases of the statues, as if they were 
afflicted with a cutaneous disorder ; the outer gates are rusty ; 
and the iron bars outside the lower windows are all tumbling 
down. Firewood is kept in halls where costly treasures 
might be heaped up, mountains high ; waterfalls are dry and 
choked ; fountains, too dull to play, and to lazy to work, 
have just enough recollection of their identity, in their sleep, 
to make the neighborhood damp ; and the sirocco wind is 
often blowing over all these things for days together, like a 
gigantic oven out for a holiday. 

Not long ago, there was a festa-day, in honor of the Vir- 
gins mother, when the young men of the neighborhood, hav- 
ing worn green wreaths of the vine in some procession or 
other, bathed in them, by scores. It looked very odd and 
pretty. Though I am bound to confess (not knowing of the 
festa at that time), that I thought, and was quite satisfied, 
they wore them as horses do — to keep the flies off. 

Soon afterwards, there was another festa-day, in honor of 
St. Nazaro. One of the Albaro young men brought two large 
bouquets soon after breakfast, and coming up stairs into the 
great sa/a, presented them himself.. This was a polite way of 
begging for a contribution towards the expenses of some 
music in the Saint's honor, so we gave him whatever it may 
have been, and his messenger departed : well satisfied. At 
six o'clock in the evening we went to the church — close at 
hand— a very gaudy place, hung all over with festoons and 
bright draperies, and filled, from the altar to the main door, 
with women, all seated. They wear no bonnets here, simply 
a long white veil — the " mezzero ; " and it was the most 
gauzy, ethereal-looking audience I ever saw. The young 
women are not generally pretty, but they walk remarkably 
well, and in their carriage and the management of their veils, 
display much innate grace and elegance. There were some 
men present : not very many : and a few of these were kneel- 
ing about the aisles, while everybody else tumbled over them. 
Innumerable tapers were burning in the church ; the bits of 
silver and tin about the saints (especially in the Virgin's neck- 
lace) sparkled brilliantly ; the priests were seated about the 
chief altar; the organ played away, lustily, and a full band 



44 PIC Tl WES FRbM IT A L Y. 

did the like ; while a conductor, in a little gallery opposite to 
the band, hammered away on the desk before him, with a 
scroll ; and a tenor, without any voice, sang. The band 
played one way, the organ played another, the singer went a 
third, and the unfortunate conductor banged and banged, and 
flourished his scroll on some' principle of his own : ap- 
parently well satisfied with the whole performance. I never 
did hear such a discordant din. The heat was intense all the 
time. 

The men, in red caps, and with loose coats hanging on 
their shoulders (they never put them on), were playing bowls, 
and buying sweatmeats, immediately outside the church. 
When half-a-dozen of them finished a game, they came into 
the aisle, crossed themselves with the holy water, knelt on 
one knee for an instant, and walked off again to play another 
game at bowls. They are remarkably expert at this diversion, 
and will play in the stony lanes and streets, and on the most 
uneven and disastrous ground for such a purpose, with as 
much nicety as on a billiard-table. But the most favorite 
game is the national one of Mora, which they pursue with 
surprising ardor, and at which they will stake everything they 
possess. It is a destructive kind of gambling, requiring no 
accessaries but the ten ringers, which are always — I intend no 
pun — at hand. Two men play together. One calls a number 
— say the extreme one, ten. He marks what portion of it he 
pleases by throwing out three, or four, or five fingers ; and his 
adversary has, in the same instant, at hazard, and without 
seeing his hand, to throw out as many fingers, as will make 
the exact balance. Their eyes and hands become so used to 
this, and act with such astonishing rapidity, that an uniniti- 
ated bystander would find it very difficult, if not impossible, to 
follow the progress of the game. The initiated, however, of 
whom there is always an eager group looking on, devour it 
with the most intense avidity; and as they are always ready 
to champion one side or the other in case of a dispute, and 
are frequently divided in their partizanship, it is often a very 
noisy proceeding. It is never the quietest game in the world : 
for the numbers are always called in a loud sharp voice, and 
follow as close upon each other as they can be counted. On 
a holiday evening, standing at a window, or walking in a gar- 
den, or passing through the streets, or sauntering in any quiet 
place about the town, you will hear this game in progress in 
a score of wine-shops at once; and looking over any vine 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



441 



yard walk, or turning almost any corner, wili come upon a 
knot of players in full cry. It is observable that most men 
have a propensity to throw out some particular number oft- 
ener than another ; and the vigilance with which two sharp- 
eyed players will mutually endeavor to detect this weakness, 
and adapt their game to it, is very curious and entertaining, 
The effect is greatly heightened by the universal suddenness 
and vehemence of gesture ; two men playing for half a far- 
thing with an intensity as all-absorbing as if the. stake were 
life. 

Hard by here is a large Palazzo, formerly belonging to 
some member of the Brignole family, but just now hired by a 
school of Jesuits for their summer quarters. I walked into 
its dismantled precincts the other evening about sunset, and 
couldn't help pacing up and down for a little time, drowsily 
taking |n the aspect of the place : which is repeated here- 
abouts in all directions. 

I loitered to and fro, under a colonnade, forming two 
sides of a weedy, grass-grown court-yard, whereof the house 
formed a third side, and a low terrace-walk, overlooking the 
garden and the neighboring hills, the fourth. I don't believe 
there was an uncracked stone in the whole pavement. In the 
centre was a melancholy statue, so piebald in its decay, that 
it looked exactly as if it had been covered with sticking- 
plaster, and afterwards powdered. The stables, coach-houses, 
offices, were all empty, all ruinous, all utterly deserted. 

Doors had lost their hinges, and were holding on by their 
latches ; windows were broken, painted plaster had peeled off, 
and was lying about in clods ; fowls and cats had so taken pos- 
session of the out-buildings, that I couldn't help thinking of 
the fairy tales, and eyeing them with suspicion, as transformed 
retainers, waiting to be changed back again. One old Tom 
in particular : a scraggy brute, with a hungry green eye (a 
poor relation, in reality, I am inclined to think) : came prowl- 
ing round and round me, as if he half believed, for the mo- 
ment, that I might be the hero come to marry the lady, and 
set all to-rights ; but discovering his mistake, he suddenly 
gave a grim snarl, and walked away with such a tremendous 
tail, that he couldn't get into the little hole where he lived, 
but was obliged to wait outside, until his indignation and his 
tail had gone clown together. 

In a sort of summer-house, or whatever it may be, in this 
colonnade, some Englishmen had been Jiving, like grubs in a 



U2 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

nut ; but the Jesuits had given them notice to go, and the} 
had gorie^ and that was shut up too. The house : a wander 
[hg, echoing^ thundering barrack of a place, with the lower 
windows barred up, as usual, was wide open at the door : and 
I have no doubt 1 might have gone in, and gone to bed, and 
gone dead, and nobody a bit the wiser. Only one suit of 
rooms on an upper Iloor was tenanted ; and from one of these, 
the voice of a young lady vocalist; practising bravura lustily, 
came daunting out upon the silent evening. 

I worn down into the garden, intended to be prim and 
quaint, with avenues, and terraces, and orange-trees, and 
statues, and water in stone basins ; and everything was green, 
gaunt, weedy, straggling, under grown or overgrown, mildewy, 
damp, redolent of all sorts of slabby, clammy, creeping, and 
uncomfortable life. There was nothing bright in the whole 
scene but a. firefly — one solitary firefly — showing against the 
dark bushes like the last little speck of the departed Glory of 
the house ; and even it went flitting up and down at sudden 
angles, and leaving a place with a jerk, and describing an ir- 
regular circle, and returning to the same place with a twitch 
that startled one : as if it were looking for the rest of the 
Glcjy, and wondering (Heaven knows it might!) what had 
become of it. 

In the course of two months, the flitting shapes and shad- 
ows of my dismal entering reverie gradually resolved them- 
selves inio familiar forms and substances ; and I already be- 
gan to think that when the time should come, a year hence, 
for closing the long holiday and turning back to England, 1 
might part from Genoa with anything but a glad heart. 

ft is a place that " grows upon you " every day. There 
seems to be always something to rind out in it. There are 
the most extraordinary alleys and by-ways to walk about in. 
You can lose your way (what a comfort that is, when you are 
i(|le !) twenty times a day, if you like; and turn up again, 
under the most unexpected and surprising difficulties. It 
abounds in the strangest contrasts ; things that are pictur- 
esque, ugly, mean, magnificent, delightful, and offensive, break 
upon the view at every turn. 

They who would know how beautiful the country immedi- 
ately surrounding Genoa is, should climb (in clear weather) to 
the top o\ Monte Faecio, or. at least, ride round the city walls: 
a feat more easily performed. No prospect can be more 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 445 

diversified and lovely than the changing views of the harbor, 
and the valleys of the two rivers, the Polcevera and the 
Bizagno, from the heights along which the strongly fortified 
walls are carried, like the great wall of China in little. In not 
the least picturesque part of this ride, there is a fair specimen 
of a real Genoese tavern, where the visitor may derive good 
entertainment from real Genoese dishes, such as Tagliarini ; 
Ravioli; German sausages, strong of garlic, sliced and eaten 
with fresh green figs • cocks' combs and sheep-kidneys, chopped 
up with mutton chops and liver ; small pieces of some unknown 
part of a calf, twisted into small shreds, fried, and served up 
in a great dish like whitebait; and other curiosities of that 
kind. They often get wine at these suburban Trattorie from 
France and Spain and Portugal, which is brought over by 
small captains in little trading vessels. They buy it at so 
much a bottle, without asking what it is, or caring to remem- 
ber if anybody tells them, and usually divide it into two heaps ; 
of which they label one Champagne, and the other Madeira. 
The various opposite flavors, qualities, countries, ages,, and 
vintages that are comprised under these two general heads is 
quite extraordinary. The most limited range is probably from 
cool Gruel up to old Marsala, and down again to apple Tea. 
The great majority of the streets are as narrow as any 
thoroughfare can well be, where people (even Italian people) 
are supposed to live and walk about ; being mere lanes, with 
here and there a kind of well, or breathing-place. The houses 
are immensely high, painted in all sorts of colors, and are 
in every stage and state of damage, dirt, and lack of repair. 
They are commonly let off in floors, or flats, like the houses 
in the old town of Edinburgh, or many houses in Paris. 
There are few street doors ; the entrance halls are, for the 
most part, looked upon as public property ; and any moder- 
ately enterprising scavenger might make a fine fortune by now 
and then clearing them out. As it is impossible for coaches 
to penetrate into these streets, there are sedan chairs, gilded 
and otherwise, for hire in divers places. A great many private 
chairs are also kept among the nobility and gentry ; and at 
night these are trotted to and fro in all directions, preceded 
by bearers of great lanthorns, made of linen stretched upon a 
frame. The sedans and lanthorns are the legitimate success^ 
ors of the long strings of patient and much-abused mules, that 
go jingling their little bells through these confined streets all 
day long. They follow them, as regularly as the stars the sum 



44 J 

When shall 1 forget the Streets of Palaces ; the Strada 
Nuova and the Strada Balbi ! or how the former looked one 
summer day, when l first saw it underneath the brightest and 
most intensely blue ol summer skies; which its narrow per 

ve oJ immense mansions, reduced to a tapering and most 
precious strip ol brightness, looking down upon the heavy 
shade below! V brightness not too common, even in July 
and August, to be well esteemed: for, it the Truth must out, 
there were not eight blue skies in as many midsummer weeks, 
saving, sometimes, early in the morning ; when, lookiti 
to sea, the water and the firmament were one world oi 
and brilliant blue. At other times, there were clouds and haze 
enough to make an Englishman grumble in his own climate, 

The endless details of these rich Palaces: the wallsof 
some oi them, within, alive with masterpieces by Vandyke ! 
The great, heavy, stone balconies, one above another, and 
tier over tier : with here and the ;er than the rest, 

towering high up .1 huge marble platform: the doorless 
vestibules, massively barred lower windows, immense public 
s:. ureases, thick marble pillars, strong dungeon like arches, 
and dreary, dreaming, vaulted chambers^ among 

which the eye wanders again, and again, as ever) 
succeeded by another the terrace gardens between hoe... 
house, with the vine, and groves 

trees, and blushing oleander in full bloom, twen 

\- e the id halls, mouldering, and blot- 

ting, and rotting in the damp corners, and still shh 
beautiful c voluptuous designs, where the walls are 

dry the faded figures on the outsides of the houses, holding 
wreaths, and crownsj and flying upward, and downwar< 
standing in niches, and here and there looking fainter and 

feeble than elsewhere, by contrast with some fresh little 

Is, who on a m< e front, 

hat seems -1 blanket, 

but is, ind< . steep, up hill 

small palaces (but \e-. \ at), with n 

and innumerable ( 

. and swai 1 half- 

naked 

altogether, such a scene 
so noisy, and yetso quiet s sive, and yet so shy and 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 445 

lowering : so wide awake, and yet so fast asleep : that it is a 
sort of intoxication to a stranger to walk on, and on, and on, 
and look about him. A bewildering phantasmagoria, with all 
the inconsistency of a dream, and all the pain and all the 
pleasure of an extravagant reality ! 

The different uses to which some of these Palaces are ap- 
plied, all at once, is characteristic. For instance, the English 
Banker (my excellent and hospitable friend) has his office in 
a good-sized Palazzo in the Strada Nuova. In the hall (every 
inch of which is elaborately painted, but which is as dirty as 
a police-station in London), a hook-nosed Saracen's Head 
with an immense quantity of black hair (there is a man at- 
tached to it) sells walking-sticks. On the other side of the 
doorway, a lady with a showy handkerchief for head-dress 
(wife to the Saracen's Head, I believe) sells articles of her 
own knitting ; and sometimes flowers. A little further in, two 
or three blind men occasionally beg. Sometimes they arc 
visited by a man without legs, on a little go-cart, but who has 
such a fresh-colored, lively face, and such a respectable, well- 
conditioned body, that he looks as if he had sunk into the 
ground up to his middle, or had come, but partially, up a 
flight of cellar-steps to speak to somebody. A little further 
in, a few men, perhaps, lie asleep in the middle of the day ; 
or they may be chairmen waiting for their absent freight. If 
so, they have brought their chairs in with them, and there 
they stand also. On the left of the hall is a little room : a 
hatter's shop. On the first floor, is the English bank. On 
the first floor also, is a whole house, and a good large resi- 
dence too. Heaven knows what there may be above that ; 
but when you are there, you have only just begun to go up 
stairs. And yet, coming down stairs again, thinking of this ; 
and passing out at a great crazy door in the back of the hall, 
instead of turning the other way, to get into the street again ; 
it bangs behind you, making the dismallest and most lone- 
some echoes, and you stand in a yard (the yard of the same 
house) which seems to have been unvisited by human foot, 
for a hundred years. Not a sound disturbs its repose. Not 
a head thrust out of any of the grim, dark, jealous windows 
within sight, makes the weeds in the cracked pavement faint 
of heart, by suggesting the possibility of there being hands to 
grub them up. Opposite to you, is a giant figure carved in 
stone, reclining, with an urn, upon a lofty piece of artificial 
rockwork ; and out of the urn, dangles the fag end of a 



446 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

leaden pipe, which, once upon a time, poured a small torrent 
down the rocks. But the eye-sockets of the giant are not 
drier than this channel is now. He seems to have given 
his urn, which is nearly upside down, a final tilt ; and after 
crying, like a sepulchral child, " All gone ! " to have lapsed 
into a stony silence. 

In the streets of shops, the houses are much smaller, 
but of great size notwithstanding, and extremely high. They 
are very dirty : quite undrained, if my nose be at all reliable : 
and emit a peculiar fragrance, like the smell of very bad 
cheese, kept in very hot blankets. Notwithstanding the 
height of the houses, there would seem to have been a lack 
of room in the City, for new houses are thrust in everywhere. 
Wherever it has been possible to cram a tumble-down tenement 
into a crack or corner, in it has gone. If there be a nook or 
angle in the wall of a church, or a crevice in any other dead 
wall, of any sort, there you are sure to find some kind of hab- 
itation : looking as if it had grown there, like a fungus. Against 
the Government House, against the old Senate House, 
round about any large building, little shops stick close, like 
parasite vermin to the great carcase. And for all this, look 
where you may : up steps, down steps, anywhere, everywhere ; 
there are irregular houses, receding, starting forward, tum- 
bling down, leaning against their neighbors, crippling them- 
selves or their friends by some means or other, until one more 
irregular than the rest, chokes up the way, and you can't see 
any further. 

One of the rottenest-looking parts of the town, I think, is 
down by the landing- wharf : though it may be, that its being 
associated with a great deal of rottenness on the evening of 
our arrival, has stamped it deeper in my mind. Here, again, 
the houses are very high, and are of an infinite variety of 
deformed shapes, and have (as most of the houses have) 
something hanging out of a great many windows, and wafting 
its frowsy fragrance on the breeze. Sometimes, it is a curtain ; 
sometimes, it is a carpet ; sometimes, it is a bed ; sometimes, 
a whole line-full of clothes ■ but there is almost always some- 
thing. Before the basement of these houses, is an arcade 
over the pavement : very massive, dark and low, like an old 
crypt. The stone, or plaster, of which it is made, has turned 
quite black ; and against every one of these black piles, all 
sorts of filth and garbage seem to accumulate spontaneously. 
Beneath some of the arches, the sellers of maccaroni and 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 44 - 

polenta establish their stalls, which are by no means in- 
viting. The offal of a fish-market near at hand— that is to 
say, of a back lane, where the people sit upon the ground and 
on various old bulk-heads and sheds, and sell fish when 
they have any to dispose of — and of a vegetable market, con- 
structed on the same principle — are contributed to the decora- 
tion of this quarter ; and as all the mercantile business is 
transacted here, and it is crowded all day, it has a very de- 
cided flavor about it'. The Porto Franco, or Free Port (where 
goods brought in from foreign countries pay no duty until 
they are sold and taken out, as in a bonded warehouse in 
England), is down here also ; and two portentous officials, in 
cocked hats, stand at the gate to search you if they choose, 
and to keep out Monks and Ladies. For, Sanctity as well as 
Beauty has been known to yield to the temptation of smug- 
gling, and in the same way : that is to say, by concealing the 
smuggled property beneath the loose folds of its dress. So 
Sanctity and Beauty may, by no means, enter. 

The streets of Genoa would be all the better for the im- 
portation of a few Priests of prepossessing appearance. Every 
fourth or fifth man in the streets is a Priest or a Monk ; and 
there is pretty sure to be at least one itinerant ecclesiastic in- 
side or outside every hackney carriage on the neighboring 
roads. I have no knowledge, elsewhere, of more repulsive 
countenances than are to be found among these gentry. If 
Nature's hand-writing be at all legible, greater varieties of 
sloth, deceit, and intellectual torpor, could hardly be observed 
among any class of men in the world. 

Mr. Pepys once heard a clergyman assert in his sermon, 
in illustration of his respect for the Priestly office, that if he 
could meet a Priest and angel together, he would salute 
the Priest first. I am rather of the opinion of Petrarch, 
who, when his pupil Boccaccio wrote to him 'In great tribula- 
tion, that he had been visited and admonished for his writings 
by a Carthusian Friar who claimed to be a messenger immedi- 
ately commissioned by Heaven for that purpose, replied, that 
for his own part, he would take the liberty of testing the re- 
ality of the commission by personal observation of the Mes- 
senger's face, eyes, forehead, behavior and discourse. I can- 
not but believe myself, from similar observation, that many 
unaccredited celestial messengers may be seen skulking 
through the streets of Genoa, or droning away their lives in 
other Italian towns. 



44 8 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

Perhaps the Cappuccini, though not a learned body, are, 
as an order, the best friends of the people. They seem to 
mingle with them more immediately, as their counsellors 
and comforters ; and to go among them more, when they are 
sick ; and to pry less than some other orders, into the secrets 
of families, for the purpose of establishing a baleful ascend- 
ency over their weaker members ; and to be influenced by a 
less fierce desire to make converts, and once made to let them 
go to ruin, soul and body. They may be seen, in their coarse 
dress, in all parts of the town at all times, and begging in the 
markets early in the morning. The Jesuits too, muster strong 
in the streets, and go slinking noiselessly about in pairs, like 
black cats. 

In some of the narrow passages, distinct trades congre- 
gate. There is a street of jewellers, and there is a row of book- 
sellers ; but even down in places where nobody ever can, or 
ever could, penetrate in a carriage, there are mighty old palaces 
shut in among the gloomiest and closest walls, and almost 
shut out from the sun. Very few of the tradesmen have any 
idea of setting forth their goods, or disposing them for show. 
If you, a stranger, want to buy anything, you usually look 
round the shop till you see it • then clutch it, if it be within 
reach, and inquire how much. Everything is sold at the most 
unlikely place. If you want coffee, you go to a sweetmeat 
shop ; and if you want meat, you will probably find it behind 
an old checked curtain, down half-a-dozen steps, in some se- 
questered nook as hard to find as if the commodity were 
poison, and Genoa's law were death to any that uttered it. 

Most of the apothecaries' shops are great lounging places. 
Here, grave men with sticks, sit down in the shade for hours 
together, passing a meagre Genoa paper from hand to hand, 
and talking, drowsily and sparingly, about the News. Two or 
three of these are poor physicians, ready to proclaim them- 
selves on an emergency, and tear off with any messenger who 
may arrive. You may know them by the way in which they 
stretch their necks to listen, when you enter ; and by the sigh 
with which they fall back again into their dull corners, on 
finding that you only want medicine. Few people lounge in 
the barbers' shops; though they are very numerous, as 
hardly any man shaves himself. But the apothecary's has its 
group of loungers, who sit back among the bottles, with their 
hands folded over the tops of their sticks. So still and quiet } 
that either you don't see them in the darkened shop, or mis' 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



449 



take them — as I did one ghostly man in bottle-green, one day, 
with a hat like a stopper — for Horse Medicine. 

On a summer evening the Genoese are as fond of putting 
themselves, as their ancestors were of putting houses, in every 
available inch of space in and about the town. In all the 
lanes and alleys, and up every little ascent, and on every 
dwarf wall, and on every flight of steps, they cluster like bees. 
Meanwhile (and especially on festa-days) the bells of the 
churches ring incessantly ; not in peals, or any known form 
of sound, but in a horrible, irregular, jerking, dingle, dingle, 
dingle : with a sudden stop at every fifteenth dingle or so, 
which is maddening. This performance is usually achieved 
by a boy up in the steeple, who takes hold of the clapper, or 
a little rope attached to it, and tries to dingle louder than 
every other boy similarly employed. The noise is supposed 
to be particularly obnoxious to Evil Spirits ; but looking up 
into the steeples, and seeing (and hearing) these young Chris- 
tians thus engaged, one might very naturally mistake them 
for the Enemy. 

Festa-days, early in the autumn, are very numerous. All 
the shops were shut up twice within a week, for these holi- 
days ; and one night, all the houses in the neighborhood of a 
particular church were illuminated, while the church itself was 
lighted, outside, with torches ; and a grove of blazing links 
was erected, in an open place outside one of the city gates. 
This part of the ceremony is prettier and more singular a 
little way in the country, where you can trace the illuminated 
* cottages all the way up a steep hill-side ; and where you pass 
festoons of tapers, wasting away in the starlight night, before 
some lonely little house upon the road. 

On these days, they always dress the church of the saint 
in whose honor the festa is holden, very gayly. Gold-em- 
broidered festoons of different colors, hang from the arches ; 
the altar furniture is set forth ; and sometimes, even the lofty 
pillars are swathed from top to bottom in tight-fitting draper^ 
ies. The cathedral is dedicated to St. Lorenzo. On St. 
Lorenzo's day, we went into it, just as the sun was setting. 
Although these decorations are usually in very indifferent 
taste, the effect, just then, was very superb, indeed. For the 
whole building was dressed in red ; and the sinking sun, 
streaming in, through a great red curtain in the chief doorway, 
made all the gorgeousness its own. When the sun went 



45 o PICTURES FROM ITA L Y. 

down, and it gradually grew quite dark inside, except for a 
few twinkling tapers on the principal altar, and some small 
dangling silver lamps, it was very mysterious and effective. 
But, sitting in any of the churches towards evening, is like a 
mild dose of opium. 

With the money collected at a festa, they usually pay fol 
the ^dressing of the church, and for the hiring of the band, 
and for the tapers. If there be any left (which seldom hap- 
pens, I believe) the souls in Purgatory get the benefit of it. 
They are also supposed to have the benefit of the exertions of 
certain small boys, who shake money-boxes before some mys- 
terious little buildings like rural turnpikes, which (usually 
shut up close) fly open on Red-letter days, and disclose an 
image and some flowers inside. 

Just without the city gate, on the Albara road, is a small 
house, with an altar in it, and a stationary money-box : also 
for the benefit of the souls in Purgatory. Still further to 
stimulate the charitable, there is a monstrous painting on the 
plaster, on either side of the grated door, representing a select 
party of souls, frying. One of them has a gray mustache, and 
an elaborate head of gray hair ; as if he had been taken out of 
a hairdresser's window and cast into the furnace. There he 
is : a most grotesque and hideously comic old soul : for ever 
blistering in the real sun, and melting in the mimic fire, for 
the gratification and improvement (and the contributions) of 
the poor Genoese. 

They are not a very joyous people, and are seldom seen 
to dance on their holidays : the staple places of entertainment 
among the women, being the churches and the public walks. 
They are very good-tempered, obliging, and industrious. In- 
dustry has not made them clean, for their habitations are ex- 
tremely filthy, and their usual occupation on a fine Sunday 
morning, is to sit at their doors, hunting in each other's heads. 
But their dwellings are so close and confined that if those 
parts of the city had been beaten down by Massena in the 
time of the terrible Blockade, it would have at least occa- 
sioned one public benefit among many misfortunes. 

The Peasant Women, with naked feet and legs, are so 
constantly washing clothes, in the public tanks, and in every 
stream and ditch, that one cannot help wondering, in the 
midst of all this dirt, who wears them when they are clean. 
The custom is to lay the wet linen which is being operated 
upon, on a smooth stone, and hammer away at it, with a flat 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 45 z 

wooden mallet. This they do, as furiously as if they were re- 
venging themselves on dress in general for being connected 
with the Fall of Mankind. 

It is not unusual to see, lying on the edge of the tank at 
these times, or on another flat stone, an unfortunate baby, tightly 
swathed up, arms and legs and all, in an enormous quantity 
of wrapper, so that it is unable to move a toe or finger. This 
custom (which we often see represented in old pictures) is 
universal among the common people. A child is left any- 
where without the possibility of crawling away, or is accident- 
ally knocked off a shelf, or tumbled out of bed, or is hung up 
to a hook now and then, and left dangling like a doll at an 
English rag-shop, without the least inconvenience to any- 
body. 

I was sitting one Sunday, soon after my arrival, in the little 
country church of San Martino, a couple of miles from the 
city, while a baptism took place. I saw the priest, and an 
attendant with a large taper, and a man, and a woman, and 
some others ■ but I had no more idea, until the ceremony was 
all over, that it was a baptism, or that the curious little stiff 
instrument, that was passed from one to another, in the course 
of the ceremony, by the handle — like a short poker — was a 
child, than I had that it was my own christening. I borrowed 
the child afterwards, for a minute or two (it was tying across 
the font then), and found it very red in the face but perfectly 
quiet, and not to be bent on any terms. The number of crip- 
ples in the streets, soon ceased to surprise me. 

There are plenty of Saints' and Virgin's Shrines, of course ; 
generally at the corners of streets. The favorite memento to 
the Faithful, about Genoa, is a painting, representing a peas- 
ant on his knees, with a spade and some other agricultural 
implements beside him ; and the Madonna, with the Infant 
Saviour in her arms, appearing to him in a cloud. This is the 
legend of the Madonna della Guardia : a chapel on a moun- 
tain within a few miles, which is in high repute. It seems 
that this peasant lived all alone by himself, tilling some land 
atop of the mountain, where, being a devout man, he daily 
said his prayers to the Virgin in the open air ; for his hut was 
a very poor one. Upon a certain day, the Virgin appeared to 
him, as in the picture, and said, " Why do you pray in the 
open air, and without a priest ? " The peasant explained be- 
cause there was neither priest nor church at hand — a very un- 
common complaint indeed in Italy, " I should wish, then," 



45 2 PICTURES FROM ITALY, 

said the Celestial Visitor, "to have a chapel built here, in 
which the prayers of the Faithful may be offered up." " But 
Santissima Madonna," said the peasant, " I am a poor maivj 
and chapels cannot be built without money. They must be 
supported, too, Santissima < for to have a chapel, and not sup- 
port it liberally, is a wickedness — a deadty sin." This senti- 
ment gave great satisfaction to the visitor. " Go ! " said she. 
" There is such a village in the valley on the left, and such 
another village in the valley on the right, and such another 
village elsewhere, that will gladly contribute to the building 
of a chapel. Go to them ! Relate what you have seen • and 
do not doubt that sufficient money will be forthcoming to erect 
my chapel, or that it will, afterwards, be handsomely main- 
tained," All of which (miraculously) turned out to be quite 
true. And in proof of this prediction and revelation, there is 
the chapel of the Madonna della Guardia, rich and flourish- 
ing at this day. 

The splendor and variety of the Genoese churches, can 
hardly be exaggerated. The church of the Annunciata es- 
pecially : built, like many of the others, at the cost of one 
noble family, and now in slow progress of repair : from the 
outer door to the utmost height of the high cupola, is so elab- 
orately painted and set in gold, that it looks (as Simond de- 
scribes it, in his charming book on Italy) like a great enam- 
elled snuff-box. Most of the richer churches contain some 
beautiful pictures, or other embellishments of great price, al- 
most universally set, side by side, with sprawling effigies of 
maudlin monks, and the veriest trash and tinsel ever seen. 

It may be a consequence of the frequent direction of the 
popular mind, and pocket, to the souls in Purgatory, but 
there is very little tenderness for the bodies of the dead here. 
For the very poor, there are, immediately outside one angle 
of the walls, and behind a jutting point of the fortification, 
near the sea, certain common pits — one for every day in the 
year — which all remain closed up, until the turn of each 
comes for its daily reception of dead bodies. Among the 
troops in the town ; there are usually some Swiss : more or 
less. When any of these die, they are buried out of a fund 
maintained by such of their countrymen as are resident in 
Genoa. Their providing coffins for these men is matter of 
great astonishment to the authorities. 

Certainly, the effect of this promiscuous and indecent 
splashing down of dead people in so many wells, is bad. It 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



453 



surrounds Death with revolting associations, that insensibly 
become connected with those whom Death is approaching. 
Indifference and avoidance are the natural result ; and all the 
softening influences of the great sorrow are harshly disturbed. 

There is a ceremony when an old Cavaliere or the like, 
expires, of erecting a pile of benches in the cathedral, to rep- 
resent his bier ; covering them over with a pall of black vel- 
vet ; putting his hat and sword on the top ; making a little 
square of seats about the whole ; and sending out formal in- 
vitations to his friends and acquaintances to come and sit 
there, and hear Mass : which is performed at the principal 
Altar, decorated with an infinity of candles for that purpose. 

When the better kind of people die, or are at the point of 
death, their nearest relations generally walk off : retiring into 
the country for a little change, and leaving the body to be dis- 
posed of, without any superintendence from them. The pro- 
cession is usually formed, and the coffin borne, and the fune- 
ral conducted, by a body of persons called a Confrate'rnita, 
who, as a kind of voluntary penance, undertake to perform 
these offices, in regular rotation, for the dead ; but who, min- 
gling something of pride with their humility, are dressed in a 
loose garment covering their whole person, and wear a hood 
concealing the face ; with breathing holes and apertures for 
the eyes. The effect of this costume is very ghastly : es- 
pecially in the case of a certain Blue Confrate'rnita belonging 
to Genoa, who, to say the least of them, are very ugly cus- 
tomers, and who look — suddenly encountered in their pious 
ministrations in the streets — as if they were Ghoules or De- 
mons, bearing off the body for themselves. 

Although such a custom may be liable to the abuse attend- 
ant on many Italian customs, of being recognized as a means 
of establishing a current account with Heaven, on which to 
draw, too easily, for future bad actions, or as an expiation for 
past misdeeds, it must be admitted to be a good one, and a 
practical one, and one involving unquestionably good works. 
A voluntary service like this, is surely better than the imposed 
penance (not at all an infrequent one) of giving so many licks 
to such and such a stone in the pavement of the cathedral ; 
or than a vow to the Madonna to wear nothing but blue for 
a year or two. This is supposed to give great delight above ; 
blue being (as is well known) the Madonna's favorite color. 
Women who have devoted themselves to this act of Faith, are 
very commonly seen walking in the streets. 



45 4 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

There are three theatres in the city, besides an old one 
now rarely opened. The most important — the Carlo Felice : 
the opera-house of Genoa — is a very splendid, commodious, 
and beautiful theatre. A company of comedians were acting 
there, when we arrived : and soon after their departure, a 
second-rate opera company came. The great season is not 
until the carnival time — in the spring. Nothing impressed 
me, so much, in my visits here (which were pretty numerous), 
as the uncommonly hard and cruel character of the audience, 
who resent the slightest defect, take nothing good-humoredly, 
seem to be always lying in wait for an opportunity to hiss, and 
spare the actresses as little as the actors. But, as there is 
nothing else of a public nature at which they are allowed to 
express the least disapprobation, perhaps they are resolved 
to make the most of this opportunity. 

There are a great number of Piedmontese officers too, 
who are allowed the privilege of kicking their heels in the pit, 
for next to nothing : gratuitous, or cheap accommodation for 
these gentlemen being insisted on, by the Governor, in all 
public or semi-public entertainments. They are lofty critics 
in consequence, and infinitely more exacting than if they made 
the unhappy manager's fortune. 

The Teatro Diurno, or Day Theatre, is a covered stage 
in the open air, where the performances take place by day- 
light, in the cool of the afternoon ; commencing at four or 
five o'clock, and lasting some three hours. It is curious, sit- 
ting among the audience, to have a fine view of the neighbor- 
ing hills and houses, and to see the neighbors at their win- 
dows looking on, and to hear the bells of the churches and 
convents ringing at most complete cross-purposes with the 
scene. Beyond this, and the novelty of seeing a play in the 
fresh pleasant air, with the darkening evening closing in, 
there is nothing very exciting or characteristic in the perform- 
ances. The actors are indifferent ; and though they some- 
times represent one of Goldoni's comedies, the staple of the 
Drama is French. Anything like nationality is dangerous to 
despotic governments, and Jesuit-beleaguered kings. 

The Theatre of Puppets, or Mariohetti— -a famous com- 
pany: from. Milan— 4s^ ; without any exception, -the drollest 
exhibition I ever beheld in my life. I never saw anything 
so exquisitely ridiculous. They look between four and five 
feet high, but are really much smaller ; for when a musician 
in the orchestra happens to put his hat on the stage, it_ 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 4S ^ 

becomes alarmingly gigantic, and almost blots out an actor. 
They usually play a comedy, and a ballet. The comic man 
in the comedy I saw one summer night, is a waiter in an hotel. 
There never was such a locomotive actor, since the world 
began. Great pains are taken with him. He has extra joints 
in his legs : and a practical eye, with which he winks at the 
pit, in a manner that is absolutely insupportable to a stranger, 
but which the initiated audience, mainly composed of the 
common people, receive (so they do everything else) quite as 
a matter of course, and as if he were a man. His spirits are 
prodigious. He continually shakes his legs, and winks his 
eye. And there is a heavy father with gray hair, who sits 
down on the regular conventional stage-bank, and blesses his 
daughter in the regular conventional way, who is tremendous. 
No one would suppose it possible that anything short of a 
real man could be so tedious. It is the triumph of art. 

In the ballet, an Enchanter runs with the Bride, in the 
very hour of her nuptials. He brings her to his cave, and 
tries to soothe her. They sit down on a sofa (the regular 
sofa ! in the regular place, O.P. Second Entrance !) and a 
procession of musicians enters ; one creature playing a drum, 
and knocking himself off his legs at every blow. These failing 
to delight her, dancers appear. Four first ; then two ; the two : 
the flesh-colored two. The way in which they dance ; the 
height to which they spring \ the impossible and inhuman 
extent to which they pirouette ; the revelation of their prepos- 
terous legs ; the coming down with a pause, on the very tips 
of their toes, when the music requires it ; the gentleman's 
retiring up, when it is the lady's turn ; and the lady's retiring 
up, when it is the gentleman's turn ; the final passion of a 
pas-de-deux ; and the going off with a bound ; — I shall never 
see a real ballet, with a composed countenance again. 

I went, another night, to see these Puppets act a play 
called " St. Helena, or the Death of Napoleon." It began 
by the disclosure of Napoleon, with an immense head, seated 
on a sofa in his chamber at St. Helena ; to whom his valet 
entered with this obscure announcement : 

" Sir Yew ud se on Low ? " (the ow, as. in cow). 

Sir Hudson (that you could have seen his regimentals J) 
was a perfect mammoth of a man, to Napoleon; hideously 
ugly ; with a monstrously disproportionate face, and a great 
clump for the lower-jaw, to express his tyrannical and obdurate 
nature. He began his system of persecution, by calling his 



45 6 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



prisoner " General Buonaparte ; " to which the latter replied, 
with the deepest tragedy, " Sir Yew ud se on Low, call me not 
thus. Repeat that phrase and leave me ! I am Napoleon, 
Emperor of France ! " Sir Yew ud se on, nothing daunted, 
proceeded to entertain him with an ordinance of the British 
Government, regulating the state he should preserve, and the 
furniture of his rooms ; and limiting his attendants to four or 
five persons. " Four or five for me !" said Napoleon. " Me ! 
One hundred thousand men were lately at my sole command ; 
and this English officer talks of four or five for me/ " Through- 
out the piece, Napoleon (who talked very like the real 
Napoleon, and was, for ever, having small soliloquies by him- 
self) was very bitter on " these English officers," and " these 
English soldiers ; " to the great satisfaction of the audience, 
who were perfectly delighted to have Low bullied ; and who, 
whenever Low said " General Buonaparte " (which he always 
did : always receiving the same correction), quite execrated 
him. It would be hard to say why ; for Italians have little 
cause to sympathize with Napoleon, Heaven knows. 

There was no plot at all, except that a French officer, dis- 
guised as an Englishman, came to propound a plan of escape ; 
and being discovered, but not before Napoleon had magnani- 
mously refused to steal his freedom, was immediately ordered 
off by Low to be hanged. In two very long speeches, which 
Low made memorable, by winding up with " Yas ! " — to show 
that he was English — which brought down thunders of ap- 
plause. Napoleon was so affected by this catastrophe, that 
he fainted away on the spot, and was carried out by two other 
puppets. Judging from what followed, it would appear that 
he never recovered the shock ; for the next act showed him, 
in a clean shirt, in his bed (curtains crimson and white), 
where a lady, prematurely dressed in mourning, brought two 
little children, who kneeled down by the bed-side, while he 
made a decent end ; the last word on his lips being " Vat- 
terlo." 

It was unspeakably ludicrous. Buonaparte's boots were 
so wonderfully beyond control, and did such marvellous things 
of their own accord : doubling themselves up, and getting 
under tables, and dangling in the air, and sometimes skating 
away with him, out of all human knowledge, when he was in full 
speech — mischances which were not rendered the less absurd, 
by a settled melancholy depicted in his face. To put an end 
to one conference with Low. he had to go to a table, an-1 read 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



457 



a book : when it was the finest spectacle I ever beheld, to see 
his body bending over the volume, like a boot-jack, and his 
sentimental eyes glaring obstinately into the pit. He was 
prodigiously good, in bed, with an immense collar to his shirt, 
and his little hands outside the coverlet. So was Dr. Antom- 
marchi, represented by a puppet with long lank hair, like 
Mawworm's, who, in consequence of some derangement of his 
wires,, hovered about the couch like a vulture, and gave 
medical opinions in the air. He was almost as good as Low, 
though the latter was great at all times — a decided brute and 
villain, beyond all possibility of mistake. Low was especially 
fine at the last, when, hearing the doctor and the valet say, 
" The Emperor is dead ! " he pulled out his watch, and wound 
up the piece (not the watch) by exclaiming, with characteristic 
brutality, " Ha ! ha ! Eleven minutes to six ! The General 
dead ! and the spy hanged ! " This brought the curtain down, 
triumphantly. 

There is not in Italy, they say (and I believe them), a 
lovelier residence than the Palazzo Peschiere, or Palace of 
the Fishponds, whither we removed as soon as our three 
months' tenancy of the Pink Jail at Albaro had ceased and 
determined. 

It stands on a height within the walls of Genoa, but aloof 
from the town : surrounded by beautiful gardens of its own, 
adorned with statues, vases, fountains, marble basins, terraces, 
walks of orange-trees and lemon-trees, groves of roses and 
camellias. All its apartments are beautiful in their propor- 
tions and decorations ; but the great hall, some fifty feet in 
height, with three large windows at the end, overlooking the 
whole town of Genoa, the harbor, and the neighboring sea, 
affords one of the most fascinating and delightful prospects 
in the world. Any house more cheerful and habitable than 
the great rooms are, within, it would be difficult to conceive ; 
and certainly nothing more delicious than the scene without, 
in sunshine or in moonlight, could be imagined. It is more 
like an enchanted place in an Eastern story than a grave. and 
sober lodging. 

How you may wander on, from room to room, and never 
tire of the wild fancies on the walls and ceilings, as bright in 
their fresh coloring as if they had been painted yesterday ; 
or how one floor, or even the great hall which opens on eight 
other rooms, is a spacious promenade ; or how there are cor- 



458 



PICTURES FROM ITALY 



ridors and bed-chambers above, which we never use and 
rarely visit, and scarcely know the way through ; or how there 
is a view of a perfectly different character on each of the four 
sides of the building ; matters little. But that prospect from 
the hall is like a vision to me. I go back to it, infancy, as I 
have done in calm reality a hundred times a day ; and stand 
there, looking out, with the sweet scents from the garden rising 
up about me, in a perfect dream of happiness. 

There lies all Genoa, in beautiful confusion, with its many 
churches, monasteries, and convents, pointing up into the 
sunny sky ; and down below me, just where the roofs begin, 
a solitary convent parapet, fashioned like a gallery, with an 
iron across at the end, where sometimes early in the morning, 
I have seen a little group of dark-veiled nuns gliding sorrow- 
fully to and fro, and stopping now and then to peep down 
upon the waking world in which they have no part. Old 
Monte Faccio, brightest of hills in good weather, but sulkiest 
when storms are coming on, is here, upon the left. The Fort 
within the walls (the good King built it to command the town, 
and beat the houses of the Genoese about their ears, in case 
they should be discontented) commands that height upon the 
right. The broad sea lies beyond, in front there ; and that 
line of coast, beginning by the light-house, and tapering away, 
a mere speck in the rosy distance, is the beautiful coast road 
that leads to Nice. The garden near at hand, among the 
roofs and houses : all red with roses and fresh with little foun- 
tains : is the Acqua Sola— a public promenade, where the 
military band plays gayly, and the white veils cluster thick, and 
the Genoese nobility ride round, and round, and round, in state- 
clothes and coaches at least, if not in absolute wisdom. Within 
a stpne's throw, as it seems, the audience of the Day Theatre 
sit : their faces turned this way. But as the stage is hidden, 
it is very odd, without a knowledge of the cause, to see their 
faces changed so suddenly from earnestness to laughter ; and 
odder still, to hear the rounds upon rounds of applause, rattling 
in the evening air, to which the curtain falls. But, being Sunday 
night, they act their best and most attractive play. And now, 
the sun is going down, in such magnificent array of red, and 
green, and golden light, as neither pen nor pencil could de- 
pict ; and to the ringing of the vesper bells, darkness sets in 
at once, without a twilight. Then, lights begin to shine in 
Genoa, and on the country road ; and the revolving lanthorn 
out at sea there, flashing, for an instant, on this palace front 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



459 



and portico, illuminates it as if there were a bright moon 
bursting from behind a cloud; then, merges it in deep obscu- 
rity, t And this, so far as I know, is the only reason why the 
Genoese avoid it after dark, and think it haunted. 

My memory will haunt it, many nights in time to come ; 
but nothing worse, I will engage. The same Ghost will occa- 
sionally sail away, as I did one pleasant autumn evening, into 
the bright prospect, and snuff the morning air at Marseilles. 

The corpulent hairdresser was still sitting in his slippers 
outside his shop-door there, but the twirling ladies in the win- 
dow, with the natural inconstancy of their sex, had ceased to 
twirl, and were languishing, stock still, with their beautiful 
faces addressed to blind corners of the establishment where 
it was impossible for admirers to penetrate. 

The steamer had come from Genoa in a delicious run of 
eighteen hours, and we were going to run back again by the 
Cornice road from Nice : not being satisfied to have seen 
only the outsides of the beautiful towns that rise in picturesque 
white clusters from among the olive woods, and rocks, and 
hills, upon the margin of the Sea. 

The Boat which started for Nice that night, at eight 
o'clock, was very .small, and so crowded with goods that there 
was scarcely room to move ; neither was there anything to eat 
on board, except bread ; nor to drink, except coffee. But 
being due at Nice at about eight or so in the morning, this 
was of no consequence : so when we began to wink at the 
bright stars, in involuntary acknowledgment of their winking 
at us, we turned into our births, in a crowded, but cool little 
cabin, and slept soundly till morning. 

The Boat, being as dull and dogged a little boat as ever 
was built, it was within an hour of noon when we turned 
into Nice Harbor, where we very little expected anything 
but breakfast. But we were laden with wool. Wool must 
not remain in the Custom-house at Marseilles more than 
twelve months at a stretch, without paying duty. It is the 
custom to make fictitious removals of unsold wool to evade 
this law ; to take it somewhere when the twelve months are 
nearly out ; bring it straight back again ; and warehouse it, 
as a new cargo, for nearly twelve months longer. This wool 
of ours, had come originally from some place in the East. It 
was recognized as Eastern produce, the moment we entered 
the harbor. Accordingly, the gay little Sunday boats, full of 
holiday people, which had come off to greet us, were warned 



460 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



away by the authorities; we were declared in quarantine; 
and a great flag was solemnly run up to the mast-head on the 
wharf, to make it known to all the town. 

It was a very hot day indeed. We were unshaved, un- 
washed, undressed, unfed, and could hardly enjoy the absurd- 
ity of lying blistering in a lazy harbor, with the town looking 
on from a respectful distance, all manner of whiskered men 
in cocked hats discussing our fate at a remote guard-house, 
with gestures (we looked very hard at them through telescopes) 
expressive of a week's detention at least : and nothing what- 
ever the matter all the time. But even in this crisis the brave 
Courier achieved a triumph. He telegraphed somebody (7 
saw nobody) either naturally connected with the hotel, or put 
e?i rapport with the establishment for that occasion only. The 
telegraph was answered, and in half an hour or less, there 
came a loud shout from the guard-house. The captain was 
wanted. Everybody helped the captain into his boat. Every- 
body got his luggage, and said we were going. The captain 
rowed away, and disappeared behind a little jutting corner of 
the Galley-slaves' Prison : and presently came back with some- 
thing, very sulkily. The brave Courier met him at the side, 
and received the something as its rightful owner. It was a 
wicker basket, folded in a linen cloth; and in it were two 
great bottles of wine, a roast fowl, some salt fish chopped with 
garlic, a great loaf of bread, a dozen or so of peaches, and a 
few other trifles. When we had selected our own breakfast, 
the brave Courier invited a chosen party to partake of these 
refreshments, and assured them that they need not be de- 
terred by motives of delicacy / as he would order a second bas- 
ket to be furnished at their expense. Which he did — no one 
knew how — and by and by, the captain being again sum- 
moned, again sulkily returned with another something ; over 
which my popular attendant presided as before ; carving with 
a clasp-knife, his own personal property, something smaller 
than a Roman sword. 

The whole party on board were made merry by these 
unexpected supplies ; but none more so than a loquacious 
little Frenchman, who got drunk in five minutes, and a sturdy 
Cappuccino Friar, who had taken everybody's fancy mightily, 
and was one of the best friars in the world, I verily believe. 

He had a free, open countenance ; and a rich brown, flow- 
ing beard ; and was a remarkably handsome man, of about 
fifty. He had come up to us, early in the morning, and in- 



PICTURES FROM ITAL 1 . 4 6i 

quired whether we were sure to be at Nice by eleven ■ saying 
that he particularly wanted to know, because if we reached it 
py that time he would have to perform Mass, and must deal 
with the consecrated wafer, fasting; whereas if there were 
no chance of his being in time, he would immediately break- 
fast. He made this communication, under the idea that the 
brave Courier was the captain ; and indeed he looked much 
more like it than anybody else on board. Being assured that 
we should arrive in good time, he fasted, and talked, fasting, 
to everybody, with the most charming good humor ; answer- 
ing jokes at the expense of friars, with other jokes at the 
expense of laymen, and saying that friar as he was, he would 
engage to take up the two strongest men on board, one after 
the other, with his teeth, and carry them along the deck. 
Nobody gave him the opportunity, but I dare say he could 
have done it ; for he was a gallant, noble figure of a man, 
even in the Cappuccino dress, which is the ugliest and most 
ungainly that can well be. 

All this had given great delight to the loquacious French- 
man, who gradually patronized the Friar very much, and 
seemed to commiserate him as one who might have been born 
a Frenchman himself, but for an unfortunate destiny. Al- 
though his patronage was §uch as a mouse might bestow upon 
a lion, he had a vast opinion of its condescension ; and in 
the warmth of that sentiment, occasionally rose on tiptoe, to 
slap the Friar on the back. 

When the baskets arrived : it being then too late for Mass : 
the Friar went to work bravely : eating prodigiously of the 
cold meat and bread, drinking deep draughts of the wine, 
smoking cigars, taking snuff, sustaining an uninterrupted con- 
versation with all hands, and occasionally running to the 
boat's side and hailing somebody on shore with the intelli- 
gence that we must be got out of this quarantine somehow or 
other, as he had to take part in a great religious procession 
in the afternoon. After this, he would come back, laughing 
lustily from pure good humor : while the Frenchman wrinkled 
his small face into ten thousand cieases, and said how droll 
it was, and what a brave boy was that Friar ! At length the 
heat of the sun without, and the wine within, made the 
Frenchman sleepy. So, in the noontide of his patronage of 
his gigantic protege', he lay down among the wool, and began 
to snore. 

It was four o'clock before we were released : and the 



4 6 2 PICTURES FROM ITAL K 

Frenchman, dirty and woolly, and snuffy, was still sleeping 
when the Friar went ashore. As soon as we were free, we all 
hurried away, to wash and dress, that we might make a de- 
cent appearance at the procession ; and I saw no more of the 
Frenchman until we took up our station in the main street to 
see it pass, when he squeezed himself into a front place elab- 
orately renovated ; threw back his little coat, to show a broad- 
barred velvet waistcoat, sprinkled all over with stars ; then 
adjusted himself and his cane so as utterly to bewilder and 
transfix the Friar, when he should appear. 

The procession was a very long one, and included an im- 
mense number of people divided into small parties ; each 
party chanting nasally, on its own account, without reference 
to any other, and producing a most dismal result. There 
were angels, crosses, Virgins carried on flat boards, sur- 
rounded by Cupids, crowns, saints, missals, infantry, tapers, 
monks, nuns, relics, dignitaries of the church in green hats, 
walking under crimson parasols : and, here and there, a spe- 
cies of sacred street-lamp hoisted on a pole. We looked out 
anxiously for the Cappuccini, and presently their brown robes 
and corded girdles were seen coming on, in a body. 

I observed the little Frenchman chuckle over the idea that 
when the Friar saw him in the broad-barred waistcoat, he 
would mentally exclaim, " Is that my Patron ! That distin- 
guished man ! " and would be covered with confusion ! Ah ! 
never was the Frenchman so deceived. As our friend the 
Cappuccini advanced, with folded arms, he looked straight 
into the visage of the little Frenchman, with a bland, serene, 
composed abstraction, not to be described. There was not 
the faintest trace of recognition or amusement on his features ; 
not the smallest consciousness of bread and meat, wine, snuff, 
or cigars. " C'est lui-meme," I heard the little Frenchman 
say, in some doubt. Oh yes, it was himself. It was not his 
brother or his nephew, very like him. It was he. He walked 
in great state : being one of the Superiors of the Order : and 
looked his part to admiration. There never was anything so 
perfect of its kind as the contemplative way in which he al- 
lowed his placid gaze to rest on us, his late companions, as if 
he had never seen us in his life and didn't see us then. The 
Frenchman, quite humbled, took off his hat at last, but the 
Friar still passed on, with the same imperturbable serenity ; 
and the broad-barred waistcoat, fading into the crowd, was 
seen no more. 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 463 

The procession wound up with a discharge of musketry 
that shook all the windows in the town. Next afternoon we 
started for Genoa, by the famed Cornice road. 

The half-French, half-Italian Vettunno, who undertook, 
with his little rattling carriage and pair, to convey us thither 
in three days, was a careless, good-looking fellow, whose light- 
heartedness and singing propensities knew no bounds as long 
as we went on smoothly. So long, he had a word and a smile, 
and a flick of his whip, for all the peasant girls, and odds 
and ends of the Somnambula for all the echoes. So long, he 
went jingling through every little village, with bells on hi» 
horses and rings in his ears : a very meteor of gallantry and 
cheerfulness. But, it was highly characteristic to see him 
under a slight reverse of circumstances, when, in one part of 
the journey, we came to a narrow place where a wagon had 
broken down and stopped up the road. His hands were 
twined in his hair immediately, as if a combination of all the 
direst accidents in life had suddenly fallen on his devoted 
head. He swore in French, prayed in Italian, and went up 
and down, beating his feet on the ground in a very ecstasy of 
despair. There were various carters and mule-drivers assem- 
bled round the broken wagon, and at last some man of an 
original turn of mind, proposed that a general and joint effort 
should be made to get things to-rights again, and clear the 
way — an idea which I verily believe would never have pre- 
sented itself to our friend, though we had remained there 
until now. It was done at no great cost of labor ; but at 
every pause in the doing, his hands were wound in his hair 
again, as if there were no ray of hope to lighten his misery. 
The moment he was on his box once more, and clattering 
briskly down hill, he returned to the Somnambula and the 
peasant girls, as if it were not in the power of misfortune to 
depress him. 

Much of the romance of the beautiful towns and villages 
on this beautiful road, disappears when they are entered, for 
many of them are very miserable. The streets are narrow, 
dark, and dirty; the inhabitants lean and squalid; and the 
withered old women, with their wiry gray hair twisted up into 
a knot on the top of the head, like a pad to- carry loads on, 
are so intensely ugly, both along the Riviera, and in Genoa, 
too, that, seen straggling about in dim doorways with their 
spindles, or crooning together in by-corners, they are like a 
population of Witches — except tliat they certainly are not Kq 



464 PICTURES FROM ITALY-, 

be suspected of brooms or any other instrument of cleanliness. 
Neither are the pig-skins, in common use to hold wine, and 
hung out in the sun in all directions, by any means orna- 
mental, as they always preserve the form of very bloated pigs, 
with their heads and legs cut off, dangling upside-down by 
their own tails. 

These towns, as they are seen in the approach, however: 
nestling, with their clustering roofs and towers, among trees 
on steep hill-sides, or built upon the brink of noble bays : are 
charming. The vegetation is, everywhere, luxuriant and 
beautiful, and the Palm-tree makes a novel feature in the 
novel scenery. In one town, San Remo — a most extraordi- 
nary place, built on gloomy open arches, so that one might 
ramble underneath the whole town — there are pretty terrace 
gardens • in other towns, there is the clang of shipwrights' 
hammers, and the building of small vessels on the beach. 
In some of the broad bays, the fleets of Europe might ride at 
anchor. In every case, each little group of houses presents, in 
the distance, some enchanting confusion of picturesque and 
fanciful shapes. 

The road itself — now high above the glittering sea, which 
breaks against the foot of the precipice : now turning inland 
to sweep the shore of a bay : now crossing the stony bed of 
a mountain stream : now low down on the beach : now wind- 
ing among riven rocks of many forms and colors : now 
chequered by a solitary ruined tower, one of a chain of towers 
built, in old time, to protect the coast from the invasions of 
the Barbary Corsairs — presents new beauties every moment. 
When its own striking scenery is passed, and it trails on 
through a long line of suburb, lying on the flat sea-shore, to 
Genoa, then, the changing glimpses of that noble city and its 
harbor, awaken a new source of interest ; freshened by every 
huge, unwieldy, half -inhabited old house in its outskirts : and 
coming to its climax when the city gate is reached, and all 
Genoa with its beautiful harbor, and neighboring hills, bursts 
proudly on the view. 



PIC TURKS FR OM ITALY. 465 



TO PARMA, MODENA, AND BOLOGNA. 

I strolled away from Genoa on the 6th of November, 
bound for a good many places (England among them), but 
first for Piacenza ; for which town I started in the coupe of a 
machine something like a travelling caravan, in company with 
the brave Courier, and a lady with a large dog, who howled 
dolefully, at intervals, all night. It was very wet, and very 
cold ; very dark, and very dismal ; we travelled at the rate 
of barely four miles an hour and stopped nowhere for refresh- 
ment. At ten o'clock next morning, we changed coaches 
at Alessandria, where we were packed up in another coach 
(the body whereof would have been small for a fly), in company 
with a very old priest ; a young Jesuit, his companion — who 
carried their breviaries and other books, and who, in the ex- 
ertion of getting into the coach, had made a gash of pink leg 
between his black stocking and his black knee-shorts, that 
reminded one of Hamlet in Ophelia's closet, only it was 
visible on both legs — a provincial Avvocato ; and a gentleman 
with a red nose that had an uncommon and singular sheen 
upon it, which I never observed in the human subject before. 
In this way we travelled on, until four o'clock in the afternoon ; 
the roads being still very heavy, and the coach very slow. 
To mend the matter, the old priest was troubled with cramps 
in his legs, so that he had to give a terrible yell every ten 
minutes or so, and be hoisted out by the united efforts of the 
company ; the coach always stopping for him, with great 
gravity. This disorder, and the roads, formed the main 
subject of conversation. Finding, in the afternoon, that the 
coupe had discharged two people, and had only one passen- 
ger inside — a monstrous ugly Tuscan, with a great purple 
mustache, of which no man could see the ends when he had 
his hat on — I took advantage of its better accommodation, 
and in company with this gentleman (who was very conversa- 
tional and good-humored) travelled on, until nearly eleven 
o'clock at night, when the driver reported that he couldn't 
think of going any farther, and we accordingly made a halt 
at a place called Stradella. 

The inn was a series of strange galleries surrounding a 
yard ; where our coach and a wagon or two, and a lot of 
fowls and firewood, were all heaped up together, higgledy- 



466 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

piggledy ; so that you didn't know, and couldn't have taken 
your oath, which was a fowl and which was a cart. We fol- 
lowed a sleepy man with a flaring torch, into a great, cold 
room, where there were two immensely broad beds, on what 
looked like two immensely broad deal' dining-tables 5 another 
deal table of similar dimensions in the middle of the bare 
floor ; four windows; and two chairs. Somebody said it was 
my room ; and I walked up and down it, for half an hour or 
so, staring at the Tuscan, the old priest, the young priest, 
and the Avvocatq (Red-Nose lived in the town, and had 
gone home), who sat upon their beds, and stared at me in 
return. 

The rather dreary whimsicality of this stage of the pro- 
ceedings, is interrupted by an announcement from the Brave 
(he has been cooking) that supper is ready ; and to the priest's 
chamber (the next room and the counterpart of mine) we all 
adjourn. The first dish is a cabbage, boiled with a great 
quantity of rice in a tureen full of water, and flavored with 
cheese. It is so hot, and we are so cold, that it appears 
almost jolly. The second dish is some little bits of pork, 
fried with pigs' kidneys. The third, two red fowls. The 
fourth, two little red turkeys. The fifth, a huge stew of garlic 
and truffles, and I don't know what else ; and this concludes 
the entertainment. 

Before I can sit down in my own chamber, and think it of 
the dampest, the door opens, and the Brave comes moving in, 
in the middle of such a quantity of fuel that he looks like 
Birnam Wood taking a winter walk. He kindles this heap in 
a twinkling, and produces a jorum of hot brandy and water ; 
for that bottle of his keeps company with the seasons, and 
now holds nothing but the purest eau de vie. When he has 
accomplished this feat, he retires for the night ; and I hear 
him, for an hour afterwards, and indeed until I fall asleep, 
makingjokes in some out-house (apparently under the pillow), 
where he is smoking cigars with a party of confidential 
friends. He never was in the house in his life before ; but 
he knows everybody everywhere, before he has been anywhere 
five minutes ■ and is certain to have attracted to. himself, in 
the meantime, the enthusiastic devotion of the whole establish- 
ment. 

This is at twelve o'clock at night. At four o'clock next 
morning, he is up again, fresher than a new-blown rose ; 
making blazing fires without the least authority from the land- 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 467 

lord ; producing mugs of scalding coffee when nobody else 
can get anything but cold water ; and going out into the dark 
streets, and roaring for fresh milk, on the chance of some- w 
body with a cow getting up to supply it While the horses 
are " coming," I stumble out into the town too. It seems to 
be all one little Piazza, with a cold damp wind blowing in 
and out of the arches, alternately, in a sort of pattern. But 
it is profoundly dark, and raining heavily; and I shouldn't 
know it to-morrow, if I were taken there to try. Which 
Heaven forbid. 

The horses arrive in about an hour. In the interval, the 
driver swears ; sometimes Christian oaths^ sometimes Pagan 
oaths. Sometimes, when it is a long, compound oath, he 
begins with Christianity and merges into Paganism. Various 
messengers are despatched ; not so much after the horses, as 
after each other • for the first messenger never comes back, 
and all the rest imitate him. At length the horses appear, 
surrounded by all the messengers ; some kicking them, and 
some dragging them, and all shouting abuse to them. Then, 
the old priest, the young priest, the Avvocato, the Tuscan, 
and all of us, take our places ; and sleepy voices proceeding 
from the doors of extraordinary hutches in divers parts of the 
yard, cry out u Addio corriere mio ! Buon' viaggio, corriere ! " 
Salutations which the courier, with his face one monstrous 
grin, returns in like manner as we go jolting and wallowing 
away, through the mud. 

At Piacenza, which was four or five hours' journey from 
the inn at Stradella, we broke up our little company before 
the hotel door, with divers manifestations of friendly feeling 
on all sides. The old priest was taken with the cramp again, 
before he had got half-way down the street ; and the young 
priest laid the bundle of books on a door-step, while he duti- 
fully rubbed the old gentleman's legs. The client of the 
Avvocato was waiting for -him at the yard-gate, and kissed him 
on each cheek, with such a resounding smack, that I am afraid 
he had either a very bad case, or a scantily-furnished purse. 
The Tuscan, with a cigar in his mouth, went loitering off, 
carrying his hat in his hand that he might the better trail up 
the ends of his dishevelled mustache. And the brave Courier, 
as he and I strolled away to look about us, began immediately 
to entertain me with the private histories and family affairs of 
the whole party. 

A brown, decayed, old town, Piacenza is. A deserted ? 



4 G 8 PIC TURES FR OM IT A L Y. 

solitary, grass-grown place, with ruined ramparts ; half filled- 
up trenches, which afford a frowsy pasturage to the lean kine 
that wander about them ■ and streets of stern houses, moodily 
frowning at the other houses over the way. The sleepiest 
and shabbiest of soldiery go wandering about, with the double 
curse of laziness and poverty, uncouthly wrinkling their mis- 
fitting regimentals ; the dirtiest of children play with their im- 
promptu toys (pigs and mud) in the feeblest of gutters ■ and 
the gauntest of dogs trot in and out of the dullest of arch- 
ways, in perpetual search of something to eat, which they 
never seem to find. A mysterious and solemn Palace, guarded 
by two colossal statues, twin Genii of the place, stands gravely 
in the midst of the idle town ; and the king with the marble 
legs, who flourished in the time of the thousand and one 
Nights, might live contentedly inside of it, and never have 
the energy, in his upper half of flesh and blood, to want to 
come out. 

What a strange, half-sorrowful and half-delicious doze it is, 
to ramble through these places gone to sleep and basking in 
the sun ! Each, in its turn, appears to be of all the mouldy, 
dreary, God-forgotten towns in the wide world, the chief. 
Sitting on this hillock where a bastion used to be, and where 
a noisy fortress was, in the time of the old Roman station 
here, I became aware that I had never known till now, what 
it is to be lazy. A dormouse must surely be in very much the 
same condition before he retires under the wool in his cage ; 
or a tortoise before he buries himself. I feel that I am getting 
rusty. That any attempt to think, would be accompanied 
with a creaking noise. That there is nothing, anywhere, to 
be done, or needing to be done. That there is no more 
human progress, notion, effort, or advancement, of any kind 
beyond this. That the whole scheme stopped here centuries 
ago, and laid down to rest until the Day of Judgment. 

Never while the brave Courier lives ! Behold him jingling 
out of Piacenza, and staggering this way, in the tallest posting- 
chaise ever seen, so that he looks out of the front window as 
if he were peeping over a garden wall ; while the postilion, 
concentrated essence of all the shabbiness of Italy, pauses for 
a moment in his animated conversation, to touch his hat to a 
blunt-nosed little Virgin, hardly less shabby than himself, en- 
shrined in a plaster Punch's show outside the town. 

In Genoa, and thereabouts, they train the vines on trellis- 
work, supported on square clumsy pillars, which, in themselves, 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



469 



are anything but picturesque. But, here, they twine them 
around trees, and let them trail among the hedges ; and the 
vineyards are full of trees, regularly planted for this purpose, 
each with his own vine twining and clustering about it. Their 
leaves are now of the brightest gold and deepest red ; and 
never was anything so enchantingly graceful and full of beauty. 
Through miles of these delightful forms and colors, the road 
winds its way. The wild festoons, the elegant wreaths, and 
crowns, and garlands of all shapes ; the faiiy nets flung over 
great trees, and making them prisoners in sport ; the tumbled 
heaps and mounds of exquisite shapes upon the ground ; how 
rich and beautiful they are ! And every now and then, a 
long, long line of trees, will be all bound and garlanded to- 
gether : as if they had taken hold of one another, and were 
coming dancing down the field ! 

Parma has cheerful, stirring streets, for an Italian town ; 
and consequently is not so characteristic as many places of less 
note. Always excepting the retired Piazza, where the Cathe- 
dral, Baptistery, and Campanile — ancient buildings, of a som- 
bre brown, embellished with innumerable grotesque monsters 
and dreamy-looking creatures carved in marble and red stone 
— are clustered in a noble and magnificent repose. Their silent 
presence was only invaded, when I saw them, by the twitter- 
ing of the many birds that were flying in and out of the crev- 
ices in the stones and little nooks in the architecture, where 
they had made their nests. They were busy, rising from the 
cold shade of Temples made with hands, into the sunny air of 
Heaven. Not so the worshippers within, who were listening 
to the same drowsy chant, or kneeling before the same kinds 
of images and tapers, or whispering, with their heads bowed 
down, in the selfsame dark confessionals, as I had left in 
Genoa and everywhere else. 

The decayed and mutilated paintings with which this 
church is covered, have, to my thinking, a remarkably mourn- 
ful and depressing influence. It is miserable to see great 
works of art — something of the Souls of Painters — perishing 
and fading away, like human forms. This cathedral is odor- 
ous with the rotting of Correggio's frescoes in the Cupola. 
Heaven knows how beautiful they may have been at one time. 
Connoisseurs fall into raptures with them now ; but such a 
labyrinth of arms and legs : such heaps of foreshortened limbs, 
entangled and involved and jumbled together ; no operative 
surgeon, gone mad, could imagine in his wildest delirium. 



47 o 



PIC TURES FR 03 f IT A L Y 



There is a very interesting subterranean church here : the 
roof supported by marble pillars, behind each of which there 
seemed to be at least one beggar in ambush : to say nothing 
of the tombs and secluded altars. From every one of these 
lurking-places, such crowds of phantom-looking men and 
women, leading other men and women with twisted limbs, or 
chattering jaws, or paralytic gestures, or idiotic heads, or 
some other sad infirmity, came hobbling out to beg, that if the 
ruined frescoes in the cathedral above, had been suddenly ani- 
mated, and had retired to this lower church, they could hardly 
have made a greater confusion, or exhibited a more confound- 
ing display of arms and legs. 

There is Petrarch's Monument, too ; and there is the Bap- 
tistery, with its beautiful arches and immense font ; and there 
is a gallery containing some very remarkable pictures, whereof 
a few were being copied by hairy-faced artists, with little vel- 
vet caps more off their heads than on. There is the Farnese 
Palace, too ; and in it one of the dreariest spectacles of decay 
that ever was seen — a grand, old, gloomy theatre, mouldering 
away. 

It is a large wooden structure, of the horse-shoe shape ; 
the lower seats arranged upon the Roman plan, but above 
them, great heavy chambers, rather than boxes, where the 
Nobles sat, remote in their proud state. Such desolation as 
has fallen on this theatre, enhanced in the spectator's fancy 
by its gay intention and design, none but worms can be famil- 
iar with. A hundred and ten years have passed, since any 
play was acted here. The sky shines in through the gashes 
in the roof j the boxes are dropping down, wasting away, and 
only tenanted by rats ; damp and mildew smear the faded 
colors, and make spectral maps upon the panels ; lean rags 
are dangling down where there were gay festoons on the Pros- 
cenium ; the stage has rotted so, that a narrow wooden gallery 
is thrown across it, or it would sink beneath the tread, and 
bury the visitor in the gloomy depth beneath. The desolation 
and decay impress themselves on all the senses. The air has 
a mouldering smell, and an earthy taste ; any stray outer 
sounds that struggle in with some lost sunbeam, are muffled 
and heavy; and the worm, the maggot, and the rot have 
changed the surface of the wood beneath the touch, as time 
will seam and roughen a smooth hand. If ever Ghosts act 
plays, they act them on this ghostly stage. 

It was most delicious weather, when we came into Mo- 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



47 ! 



dena, where the darkness of the sombre colonnades over the 
footways skirting the main street on either side, was made re- 
freshing and agreeable by the bright sky, so wonderfully blue. 
I passed from all the glory of the day, into a dim cathedral, 
where High Mass was performing, feeble tapers were burn- 
ing, people were kneeling in all directions before all manner 
of shrines, and officiating priests were crooning the usual 
chant, in the usual, low dull, drawling, melancholy tone. 

Thinking how strange it was, to find, in every stagnant 
town, this same Heart beating with the same monotonous 
pulsation, the centre of the same torpid, listless system, I 
came out by another door, and was suddenly scared to death 
by a blast from the shrillest trumpet that ever was blown. 
Immediately, came tearing round the corner, an equestrian 
company from Paris : marshalling themselves under the walls 
of the church, and flouting, with their horses' heels, the grif- 
fins, lions, tigers, and other monsters in stone and marble, 
decorating its exterior. First, there came a stately nobleman 
with a great deal of hair, and no hat, bearing an enormous 
banner, on which was inscribed, Mazeppa ! to-night ! Then, 
a Mexican chief, with a great pear-shaped club on his 
shoulder, like Hercules. Then six or eight Roman chariots : 
each with a beautiful lady in extremely short petticoats, and 
unnaturally pink tights, erect within : shedding beaming looks 
upon the crowd, in which there was a latent expression of 
discomposure and anxiety, for which I couldn't account, 
until, as the opened back of each chariot presented itself, I 
saw the immense difficulty with which the pink legs maintained 
their perpendicular, over the uneven pavement of the town : 
which gave me quite a new idea of the ancient Romans and 
Britons. The procession was brought to a close, by some 
dozen indomitable warriors of different nations, riding two 
and two, and haughtily surveying the tame population of 
Modena : among whom, however, they occasionally conde- 
scended to scatter largesse in the form of a few handbills. 
After caracolling among the lions and tigers, and proclaim- 
ing that evening's entertainments with blast of trumpet, it 
then filed off, by the other end of the square, and left a new 
and greatly increased dulness behind. 

When the procession had so entirely passed away, that 
the shrill trumpet was mild in the distance, and the tail of the 
last horse was hopelessly round the corner, the people who 
had come out of the church to stare at it, went back again, 



4 * 2 PIC TURKS FR OM IT A L Y. 

But one old lady kneeling on the pavement within, near the 
door, had seen it all, and had been immensely interested, with- 
out getting up ; and this old lady's eye, at that juncture, I 
happened to catch : to our mutual confusion. She cut our em- 
barrassment very short, however, by crossing herself devoutly, 
and going down, at full length, on her face, before a figure in 
a fancy petticoat and a gilt crown ; which was so like one of 
the procession-figures, that perhaps at this hour she may 
think the whole appearance a celestial vision. Anyhow, I 
must certainly have forgiven her her interest in the Circus, 
though I had been her father confessor. 

There was a little fiery-eyed old man with a crooked 
shoulder, in the cathedral, who took it very ill that I made no 
effort to see the bucket (kept in an old tower) which the peo- 
ple of Modena took away from the people of Bologna in the 
fourteenth century, and about which there was war made and 
a mock-heroic poem by Tassone, too. Being quite content, 
however, to look at the outside of the tower, and feast, in im- 
agination, on the bucket within ; and preferring to loiter in 
the shade of the tall Campanile, and about the cathedral ; I 
have no personal knowledge of this bucket, even at the pres- 
ent time. 

Indeed, we were at Bologna, before the little old man (or 
the Guide-Book) would have considered that we had half done 
justice to the wonders of Modena. But it is such a delight 
to me to leave new scenes behind, and still go on, encounter- 
ing newer scenes — and, moreover, I have such a perverse dis- 
position in respect of sights that are cut, and dried, and dic- 
tated — that I fear I sin against similar authorities in every 
place I visit. 

Be this as it may, in the pleasant Cemetery at Bologna, I 
found myself walking next Sunday morning, among the stately 
marble tombs and colonnades, in company with a crowd of 
Peasants, and escorted by a little Cicerone of that town, who 
was excessively anxious for the honor of the place, and most 
solicitous to divert my attention from the bad monuments : 
whereas he was never tired of extolling the good ones. See- 
ing this little man (a good-humored little man he was, who 
seemed to have nothing in his face but shining teeth and 
eyes) looking wistfully at a certain plot of grass, I asked him 
who was buried there. " The poor people, Signore," he said, 
with a shrug and a smile, and stopping to look back at me — - 
for he always went on a little before, and took off his hat to 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



473 



introduce every new monument. " Only the poor, Signore ! 
It's very cheerful. It's very lively. How green it is, how 
cool ! It's like a meadow! There are five," — holding all the 
fingers of his right hand to express the number, which an 
Italian peasant will always do, if it be within the compass of 
his ten fingers, — " there are five of my little children buried 
there, Signore ; just there ; a little to the right. Well ! Thanks 
to God ! It's very cheerful. How green it is, how cool it 
is ! It's quite a meadow ! " 

He looked me very hard in the face, and seeing I was 
sorry for him, took a pinch of snuff (every Cicerone takes 
snuff), and made a little bow ; partly in deprecation of his 
having alluded to such a subject, and partly in memory of the 
children and of his favorite saint. It was as unaffected and as 
perfectly natural a little bow, as ever man made. Immedi- 
ately afterwards, he took his hat off altogether, and begged 
to introduce me to the next monument ; and his eyes and his 
teeth shone brighter than before. 



THROUGH BOLOGNA AND FEE.RARA. 

There was such a very smart official in attendance at the 
Cemetery where the little Cicerone had buried his children, 
that when the little Cicerone suggested to me in a whisper, 
that there would be no offence in presenting this officer, in re- 
turn for some slight extra service, with a couple of pauls 
(about tenpence, English money), I looked incredulously at 
his cocked hat, wash-leather gloves, well-made uniform, and 
dazzling buttons, and rebuked the little Cicerone with a grave 
shake of the head. For, in splendor of appearance, he was at 
least equal to the Deputy Usher of the Black Rod ; a::.d the 
idea of his carrying, as Jeremy Diddler would say, "siieh a 
thing as tenpence " away wiih him, seemed monstrous. He 
took it in excellent part, however, when I made bold to give 
it him, and pulled off his cocked hat with a flourish that 
would have been a bargain at double the money. 

It seemed to be his duty to describe the monuments to 
the people — at all events he was doing so ; and when I com- 
pared him, like Gulliver in Brobdignag, " with the institutions 



474 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

of my own beloved country,, I could not refrain from tears of 
pride and exultation." He had no pace at all ; no more than 
a tortoise. He loitered as the people loitered, that they 
might gratify their curiosity ; and positively allow them, now 
and then, to read the inscriptions on the tombs. He was 
neither shabby, nor insolent, nor churlish, nor ignorant. He 
spoke his own language with perfect propriety, and seemed 
to consider himself, in his way, a kind of teacher of the 
people, and to entertain a just respect both for himself and 
them. They would no more have such a man for a Verger 
in Westminister Abbey, than they would let the people in (as 
they do at Bologna) to see the monuments for nothing.* 

Again, an ancient sombre town, under the brilliant sky; 
with heavy arcades over the footways of the older streets, and 
lighter and more cheerful archways in the newer portions of 
the town. Again, brown piles of sacred buildings, with more 
birds flying in and out of chinks in the stones ; and more 
snarling monsters for the bases of the pillars. Again, rich 
churches, drowsy Masses, curling incense, tinkling bells, 
priests in bright vestments : pictures, tapers, laced altar cloths, 
crosses, images, and artificial flowers. 

There is a grave and learned air about the city, and a 
pleasant gloom upon it, that would leave it, a distinct and 
separate impression in the mind, among a crowd of cities, 
though it were not still further marked in the traveller's re- 
membrance by the two brick leaning towers (sufficiently un- 
sightly in themselves, it must be acknowledged), inclining 
cross-wise as if they were bowing stiffly to each other — a most 
extraordinary termination to the perspective of some of the 
narrow streets. The colleges, and churches too, and palaces : 
and above all the academy of Fine Arts, where there are a 
host of interesting pictures, especially by Guido, Domeni- 
CHiNO, and Ludovico Caracci : give it a place of its own in 
the memory. Even though these were not, and there were 
nothing else to remember it by, the great Meridian on the 
pavement of the church of San Petronio, where the sunbeams 
mark the time among the kneeling people, would give it a fan- 
ciful and pleasant interest. 

Bologna being very full of tourists, detained there by au 
inundation which rendered the road to Florence impassable, 
I was quartered up at the top of an hotel, in an out-of-the-way 

* A far more liberal and just recognition of the public has arisen in Westminister 
Abbey since this was written. 



riCTURES FROM ITALY. ^ 

room which I never could find : containing a bed, big enough 
for a boarding-school, which I couldn't fall asleep in. The 
chief among the waiters who visited this lonely retreat, where 
there was no other company but the swallows in the broad 
eaves over the window, was a man of one idea in connection 
with the English ; and the subject of this harmless monoma- 
nia, was Lord Byron. I made the discovery by accidentally 
remarking to him, at breakfast, that the matting with which 
the floor was covered, was very comfortable at that season, 
when he immediately replied that Milor Beeron had been 
much attached to that kind of matting. Observing, at that 
same moment, that I took no milk, he exclaimed with enthusi- 
asm, that Milor Beeron had never touched it. At first, I took 
it for granted, in my innocence, that he had been one of the 
Beeron servants ; but no, he said, no, he was in the habit of 
speaking about my Lord, to English gentlemen ; that was all. 
He knew all about him, he said. In proof of it, he connected 
him with every possible topic, from the Monte Pulciano wine 
at dinner (which was grown on an estate he had owned), to 
the big bed itself, which was the very model of his. When 1 
left the inn, he coupled with his final bow in the yard, a part- 
ing assurance that the road by which I was going, had been 
Milor Beeron's favorite ride ; and before the horse's feet had 
well begun to clatter on the pavement, he ran briskly up stairs 
again, I dare say to tell some other Englishman in some other 
solitary room that the guest who had just departed was Lord 
Beeron's living image. 

I had entered Bologna by night — almost midnight — and 
all along the road thither, after our entrance into the Papal 
territory : which is not, in any part, supremely well governed. 
Saint Peter's keys being rather rusty now : the driver had so 
worried about the danger of robbers in travelling after dark, 
and had so infected the brave Courier, and the two had been 
so constantly stopping and getting up and down to look aftei 
a portmanteau which was tied on behind, that I should have 
felt almost obliged to any one who would have had the goodness 
to take it away. Hence it was stipulated, that, whenever wc 
left Bologna, we should start so as not to arrive at Ferrarr 
later than eight at night ; and a delightful afternoon and 
evening journey it was, albeit through a flat district which 
gradually became more marshy from the overflow of brooks 
and rivers in the recent heavy rains. 

At sunset, when I was walking on alone, while the horses 



476 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



rested, I arrived upon a little scene, which. , by one of. those 
singular mental operations of which we are all conscious, 
seemed perfectly familiar to me, and which I see distinctly 
now. There was not much in it. In the blood red light, 
there was a mournful sheet of water, just stirred by the even- 
ing wind ; upon its margin a few trees. In the foreground 
was a group of silent peasant girls leaning over the parapet of 
a little bridge, and looking, now up at the sky, now down into 
the water; in the distance, a deep bell; the shade of ap- 
proaching night on everything. If I had been murdered there, 
in some former life, I could not have seemed to remember the 
place more thoroughly, or with a more emphatic chilling of 
the blood ; and the mere remembrance of it acquired in that 
minute, is so strengthened by the imaginary recollection, that 
I hardly think I could forget it. 

More solitary, more depopulated, more deserted, old 
Ferrara, than any city of the solemn brotherhood ! The grass 
so grows up in the silent streets, that any one might make 
hay there, literally, while the sun shines. But the sun shines 
with diminished cheerfulness in grim Ferrara ; and the people 
are so few who pass and re-pass through the places, that the 
flesh of its inhabitants might be grass indeed, and growing in 
the squares. 

I wonder why the head coppersmith in an Italian town, 
always lives next door to the Hotel, or opposite : making the 
visitor feel as if the beating hammers were his own heart, pal- 
pitating with a deadly energy ! I wonder why jealous cor- 
ridors surround the bedroom on all sides, and fill it with 
unnecessary doors that can't be shut, and will not open, and 
abut on pitchy darkness ! I wonder why it is not enough that 
these distrustful genii stand agape at one's dreams all night, 
but there must also be round open portholes, high in the wall, 
suggestive, when a mouse or rat is heard behind the wainscot, 
of a somebody scraping the wall with his toes, in his en- 
deavors to reach one of these portholes and look in ! I won- 
der why the faggots are so constructed, as to know of no effect 
but an agony of heat when they are lighted and replenished, 
and an agony of cold and suffocation at all other times ! I 
wonder, above all, why it is the great feature of domestic archi- 
tecture in Italian inns, that all the fire goes up the chimney, 
except the smoke ! 

The answer matters little. Coppersmiths, doors, portholes, 
smoke, and faggots, are welcome to me. Give me the smiling 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



477 



face of the attendant, man or woman ; the courteous manner; 
the amiable desire to please and to be pleased; the light- 
hearted, pleasant, simple air — so many jewels set in dirt — and 
I am theirs again to-morrow ! 

Artosto's house, Tasso's prison, a rare old Gothic cathe- 
dral, and more churches of course, are the sights of Ferrara. 
But the long silent streets, and the dismantled palaces, where 
ivy waves in lieu of banners, and where rank weeds are slowly 
creeping up the long-untrodden stairs, are the best sights of all. 

The aspect of this dreary town, half an hour before sun- 
rise one fine morning, when I left it, was as picturesque as it 
seemed unreal and spectral. It was no matter that the peo- 
ple were not yet out of bed ; for if they had all been up and 
busy, they would have made but little difference in that desert 
of a place. It was best to see it, without a single figure in 
the picture ; a city of the dead, without one solitary survivor. 
Pestilence might have ravaged streets, squares, and market- 
places ; and sack and siege have ruined the old houses, bat- 
tered down their doors and windows, and made breaches in 
iheir roofs. In one part, a great tower rose into the air ; the 
only landmark in the melancholy view. In another, a pro- 
digious castle, with a moat about it, stood aloof : a sullen city 
in itself. In the black dungeons of this castle, Parisina and 
her lover were beheaded in the dead of night. The red light, 
beginning to shine when I looked back upon it, stained its 
walls without, as they have, many a time, been stained within, 
in old days ; but for any sign of life they gave, the castle and 
die city might have been avoided by all human creatures, from 
the moment when the axe went down upon the last of the two 
lovers : and might have never vibrated to another sound 

Beyond the blow that to the block 

Pierced through with forced and sullen shock. 

Coming to the Po, which was greatly swollen, and running 
fiercely, we crossed it by a floating bridge of boats, and so 
came into the Austrian territory, and resumed our journey : 
through a country of which, for some miles, a great part was 
under water. The brave Courier and the soldiery had first 
quarrelled, for half an hour or more, over our eternal pass- 
port. But this was a daily relaxation with the Brave, who 
was always stricken deaf when shabby functionaries in uniform 
came, as they constantly did come, plunging out of wooden 
boxes to look at it — or in other words to beg — and who, 



47 8 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

stone deaf to my entreaties that the man might have a trifle 
;*iven him, and we resume our journey in peace, was wont to sit 
reviling the functionary in broken English : while the unfortu- 
nate man's face was a portrait of mental agony framed in the 
coach window, from his perfect ignorance of what was being 
said to his disparagement. 

There was a postilion, in the course of this day's journey, 
as wild and savagely good-looking a vagabond \as you would 
•lesire to see. He was a tall, .stout-made, dark-complexioned 
.'allow, with a profusion of shaggy black hair hanging all over 
.lis face, and great black whiskers stretching down his throat. 
His dress was a torn suit of rifle green, garnished here and 
there with red ; a steeple-crowned hat, innocent of nap, with 
a broken and bedraggled feather stuck in the band ; and a 
.laming red neckerchief hanging on his shoulders. He was 
:iot in the saddle, but reposed, quite at his ease, on a sort of 
low foot-board in front of the postchaise, down amongst the 
Worses' tails — convenient for having his brains kicked out, at 
any moment. To this Brigand, the brave Courier, when we 
were at a reasonable trot, happened to suggest the practicabil- 
ity of going faster. He received the proposal with a perfect 
yell of derision ; brandished his whip about his head (such a 
./hip ! it was more like a home-made bow) ; flung up his heels, 
much higher than the horses ; and disappeared, in a paroxysm, 
:,omewhere in the neighborhood of the axletree. I fully 
expected to see him lying in the road, a hundred yards behind, 
but up came the steeple-crowned hat again, next minute, and 
he was seen reposing, as on a sofa, entertaining himself with 
;he idea, and crying, " Ha ha ! what next. Oh the devil ! 
jaster too ! Shoo — hoo — o — o ! " (This last ejaculation, an 
inexpressibly defiant hoot.) Being anxious to reach our imme- 
diate destination that night, I ventured, by and by, to repeat 
the experiment on my own account. It produced exactly the 
same effect. Round flew the whip with the same scornful 
ilourish, up came the heels, down went the steepled-crowned 
hat, and presently he reappeared, reposing as before and 
saying to himself, " Ha ha ! what next ! Faster too. Oh 
:he devil ! Shoo — hoo — o— o ! " 



PICTURES FROM 1TAL Y. 4? ^ 



AN ITALIAN DREAM. 

I had been travelling for some days ; resting very little 
in the night, and never in the day. The rapid and unbroken 
succession of novelties that had passed before me, came back 
like half-formed dreams ; and a crowd of objects wandered in 
the greatest confusion through my mind, as I travelled on, by 
a solitary road. At intervals, some one among them would 
stop, as it were, in its restless flitting to and fro, and enable 
me to look- at it, quite steadily, and behold it in full distinct- 
ness. After a few moments, it would dissolve, like a view in 
a magic-lantern. ; and while 'I saw some part of it quite plainly, 
and some faintly, and some not at all, would show me anothe R 
of the many places I hiad lately seen,: lingering behind it, and, 
coming through it. This was no sooner visible -than, in his 
turn, it melted into something else. ... .- }"I : 

At one moment, I was standing again, before the: brown 
old rugged churches of Modena. As I recognized the 
curious pillars with grim monsters for their bases, I seemed 
to see them, standing by themselves in the quiet: square at 
Padua, where there were the staid old University, and the 
figures, demurely gowned, grouped here and there in the 
open space about it. Then, I was strolling in the outskirts 
of that pleasant city, admiring the unusual neatness of the 
dwelling-houses, gardens, and orchards, as I had seen them a 
few hours before. In their stead arose, immediately, the two 
towers of Bologna; and the most obstinate of all these 
objects, failed to hold its ground, a minute, before the mon- 
strous moated castle of Ferrara, which, like an illustration to 
a wild romance, came back again in the red sunrise, lording 
it over the solitary, grass-grown, withered town. In short, I 
had that incoherent but delightful jumble in my brain, which 
travellers are apt to have, and are indolently willing to encour- 
age. Every shake of the coach in which I sat, half dozing in 
the dark, appeared to jerk some new recollection out of its 
place, and to jerk some other new recollection into it; and in 
this state I fell asleep. 

I was awakened after some time (as I thought) by the 
stopping of the coach. It was now quite night, and we were 
at the water-side. There lay here, a black boat, with a little 



4 3o PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 

house or cabin in it of the same mournful color. When I 
had taken my seat in this, the boat was paddled, by two men, 
towards a great light, lying in the distance on the sea. 

Ever and again, there was a dismal sigh of wind. It 
ruffled the water, and rocked the boat, and sent the dark 
clouds flying before the stars. I could not but think how 
strange it was, to be floating away at that hour : leaving the 
land behind, and going on, towards this light upon the sea. 
It soon began to burn brighter ; and from being one light 
became a cluster of tapers, twinkling and shining out of the 
water, as the boat approached towards them by a dreamy 
kind of track, marked out upon the sea by posts and piles. 

We had floated on, five miles or so, over the dark water, 
when I heard it rippling in my dream, against some obstruc- 
tion near at hand. Looking out attentively, I saw, through 
i he gloom, a something black and massive — like a shore, but 
Ifing close and flat upon the water, like a raft — which we. 
were gliding past. The chief of the two rowers said it was a 
burial-place. 

Full of the interest and wonder which a cemetery lying 
c>ut there, in the lonely sea, inspired, I turned to gaze upon it 
as it should recede in our path, when it was quickly shut out 
from my view. Before I knew by what, or how, I found that 
we were gliding up a street — a phantom street ; the houses 
rising on both sides, from the water, and the black boat glid- 
ing on beneath their windows. Lights were shining from some 
of these casements, plumbing the depth of the black stream 
with their reflected rays, but all was profoundly silent. 

So we advanced into this ghostly city, continuing to hold 
our course through narrow streets and lanes,- all filled and 
flowing with water. Some of the corners where our way 
branched off, were so acute and narrow, that it seemed impos- 
sible for the long slender boat to turn them ; but the rowers, 
with a low melodious cry of warning, sent it skimming on 
without a pause. Sometimes, the rowers of another black 
boat like our own, echoed the cry, and slackening their speed 
(as I thought we did ours) would come flitting past us like a 
dark shadow. Other boats, of the same sombre hue, were 
lying moored, I thought, to painted pillars, near to dark mys- 
terious doors that opened straight upon the water. Some of 
these were empty ; in some, the rowers lay asleep ; towards 
one, I saw some figures coming down a gloomy archway from 
the interior of a palace : gayly dressed, and attended by torch- 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 4 8 1 

bearers. It was but a glimpse I had of them ; for a bridge, 
so low and close upon the boat that it seemed ready to fall 
down and crush us : one of the many bridges that perplexed 
the Dream : blotted them out, instantly. On we went, floating 
towards the heart of this strange place — with water all about 
us where never water was elsewhere — clusters of houses, 
churches, heaps of stately buildings growing out of it — and, 
everywhere, the same extraordinary silence. Presently, we 
shot across a broad and open stream ; and passing, as I 
thought, before a spacious paved quay, where the bright lamps 
with which if was illuminated showed long rows of arches and 
pillars, of ponderous construction and great strength, but as 
light to the eye as garlands of hoar-frost or gossamer — and 
where, for the first time, I saw people walking — arrived at a 
flight of steps leading from the water to a large mansion, 
where, having passed through corridors and galleries innum- 
erable, I lay down to rest ; listening to the black boats stealing 
up and down below the window on the rippling water, till I 
fell asleep. 

The glory of the day that broke upon me in this Dream ; 
its freshness, motion, buoyancy ; its sparkles of the sun in 
water ; its clear blue sky and rustling air • no waking words 
can tell. But, from my window, I looked clown on boats and 
barks ; on masts, sails, cordage, flags ; on groups of busy 
sailors, working at the cargoes of these vessels ; on wide quays, 
strewn with bales, casks, merchandise of many kinds ; on great 
ships,' lying near at hand in stately indolence ; on islands, 
crowned with gorgeous domes and turrets : and where golden 
crosses glittered in the light, atop of wondrous churches, 
springing from the sea ! Going down upon the margin of the 
green sea, rolling on before the door, and filling all the streets, 
I came upon a place of such surpassing beauty, and such 
grandeur, that all the rest was poor and faded, in comparison 
with its absorbing loveliness. 

It was a great Piazza, as I thought ; anchored, like all the 
rest, in the deep ocean. On its broad bosom, was a Palace, 
more majestic and magnificent in its old age, than all the 
buildings of the earth, in the high prime and fulness of their 
youth. Cloisters and galleries : so light, they might have been 
the work of fairy hands : so strong that centuries had battered 
them in vain : wound round and round this palace, and en- 
folded it with a Cathedral, gorgeous in the wild luxuriant 
fancies of the East. At no great distance from its porch, a 



4 82 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

lofty tower, standing by itself, and rearing its proud head, 
alone, into the sky, looked out upon the Adriatic Sea. Near 
to the margin of the stream, were two ill-omened pillars of 
red granite ; one having on its top, a figure with a sword and 
shield ; the other, a winged lion. Not far from these again, a 
second tower : richest of the rich in all its decorations : even 
here, where all was rich : sustained aloft, a great orb, gleaming 
with gold and deepest blue : the Twelve Signs painted on it, 
and a mimic sun revolving in its course around them : while 
above, two bronze giants hammered out the hours upon a 
sounding bell. An oblong square of lofty houses of the 
whitest stone, surrounded by a light and beautiful arcade, 
formed part of this enchanted scene ; and, here and there, gay 
masts for flags rose, tapering, from the pavement of the un- 
substantial ground. 

I thought I entered the Cathedral, and went in and out 
among its many arches : traversing its whole extent. A grand 
and dreamy structure, of immense proportions ; golden with 
old mosaics ; redolent of perfumes ; dim with the smoke of 
incense ; costly in treasure of precious stones and metals, 
glittering through iron bars ; holy with the bodies of deceased 
saints ; rainbow-hued with windows of stained glass ; dark with 
carved woods and colored marbles ; obscure in its vast 
heights, and lengthened distances ; shining with silver lamps 
and winking lights ; unreal, fantastic, solemn, inconceivable 
throughout. I thought I entered the old palace ; pacing silent 
galleries and council-chambers, where the old rulers of this 
mistress of the waters looked sternly out, in pictures, from the 
walls, and where her high-prowed galleys, still victorious on 
canvas, fought and conquered as of old. I thought I wan- 
dered through its halls of state and triumph — bare and empty 
now ! — and musing on its pride and might, extinct : for that 
was past i all past • heard a voice say, " Some tokens of its 
ancient rule, and some consoling reasons for its downfall, may 
be traced here, yet ! " 

I dreamed that I was led on, then, into some jealous rooms, 
communicating with a prison near the palace ; separated from 
it by a lofty bridge crossing a narrow street ; and called, I 
dreamed, The Bridge of Sighs. 

. But first I passed two jagged slits in a stone wall ; the 
lions' mouths — now toothless — where, in the distempered 
horror of my sleep, I thought denunciations of innocent men 
to the old wicked Council, had been dropped through, many a 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 483 

time, when the night was dark. So, when I saw the council- 
room to which such prisoners were taken for examination, and 
'.he door by which they passed out, when they were con- 
demned — a door that never closed upon a man with life and 
hope before him — my heart appeared to die within me. 

It was smitten harder though, when, torch in hand, I de- 
scended from the cheerful day into two ranges, one below 
another, of dismal, awful, horrible stone cells. They were 
quite dark. Each* had a loop-hole in its massive wall, where, 
in the old time, every day, a torch was placed — I dreamed — 
to light the prisoner within, for half an hour. The captives, 
by the glimmering of these brief rays, had scratched and cut 
inscriptions in the blackened vaults. I saw them. For their 
labor with a rusty nail's point, had outlived their agony and 
them, through many generations. 

One cell, I saw, in which no man remained for more than 
four and twenty hours ; being marked for dead before he 
entered it. Hard by, another, and a dismal one, whereto, at 
midnight, the confessor came — a monk brown-robed, and 
hooded — ghastly in the day, and free bright air, but in the 
midnight of that murky prison, Hope's extinguisher, and 
Murder's herald. I had my foot upon the spot, where, at the 
same dread hour, the shriven prisoner was strangled; and 
struck my hand upon the guilty door — low browed and steal- 
thy — through which the lumpish sack was carried out into a 
boat, and rowed away, and drowned where it was death to cast 
a net. 

Around this dungeon stronghold, and above some part of 
it • licking the rough walls without, and smearing them with 
clamp and slime within : stuffing dank weeds and refuse into 
chinks and crevices, as if the very stones and bars had mouths 
to stop : furnishing a smooth road for the removal of the 
bodies of the secret victims of the State — a road so ready that 
it went along with them, and- ran before them, like a cruel 
officer — flowed the same water that filled this Dream of mine, 
and made it seem one, even at the time. 

Descending from the palace by a staircase, called, I 
thought," the Giant's — I had some imaginary recollection of 
an old man abdicating, coming, more slowly and more feebly, 
down it, when he heard the bell, proclaiming his successor — I 
glided off, in one of the dark boats, until we came to an old 
arsenal guarded by four marble lions. To make my Dream 
more monstrous and unlikely, one of these had words and 



48 4 



PIC TUR ES FR( KM I TA L \ '. 



sentences upon its body, inscribed there, at an unknown time, 
and in an unknown language ; so that their purport was a mys- 
tery to all men. 

There was little sound of hammers in this place for build- 
ing ships, and little work in progress ; for the greatness of the 
city was no more, as I have said. Indeed, it seemed a very 
wreck found drifting on the sea ; a strange flag hoisted in its 
honorable stations, and strangers standing at its helm. A 
splendid barge in which its ancient chief had gone forth, 
pompously, at certain periods, to wed the ocean, lay here, I 
thought, no more ; but in its place, there was a tiny model, 
made from recollection like the city's greatness ; and it told 
of what had been (so are the strong and weak confounded in 
the dust) almost as eloquently as the massive pillars, arches, 
roofs, reared to overshadow stately ships that had no other 
shadow now, upon the water or the earth. 

An armory was there yet. Plundered and despoiled ; but 
an armory. With a fierce standard taken from the Turks, 
drooping in the dull air of its cage. Rich suits of mail worn 
by great warriors were hoarded there ; crossbows and bolts ; 
quivers full of arrows ; spears ; swords, daggers, maces, shields, 
and heavy-headed axes. Plates of wrought steel and iron, to 
make the gallant horse a monster cased in metal scales ; and 
one spring-weapon (easy to be carried in the breast) designed 
to do its office noiselessly, and made for shooting men with 
poisoned darts. 

One press or case I saw, full of accursed instruments of 
torture : horribly contrived to cramp, and pinch, and grind 
and crush men's bones, and tear and twist them with the tor- 
ment of a thousand deaths. Before it, were two iron helmets, 
with breast-pieces : made to close up tight and smooth upon 
the heads of living sufferers ; and fastened on to each, was a 
small knob or anvil, where the directing devil could repose 
his elbow at his ease, and listen, near the walled-up ear, to 
the lamentations and confessions of the wretch within. There 
was that grim resemblance in them to the human shape — they 
were such moulds of sweating faces, pained and cramped — ■ 
that it was difficult to think them empty ; and terrible distor- 
tions lingering within them, seemed to follow me, when, taking 
to my boat again, I row off to a kind of garden or public 
walk in the sea, where there were grass and trees. But I for- 
got them when I stood upon its farthest brink — I stood there 
in my dream — and looked, along the ripple, to the setting 



PIC TURKS IR OM IT A L F. 48 5 

sun ; before me, in the sky and on the deep, a crimson flush ; 
and behind me the whole city resolving into streaks of red and 
purple, on the water. 

In the luxurious wonder of so rare a dream, I took but 
little heed of time, and had but little understanding of its 
flight. But there were days and nights in it ; and when the 
sun was high and when the rays of lamps were crooked in the 
running water, I was still afloat, I thought : plashing the slip- 
pery walls and houses with cleavings of the tide, as my black 
boat, borne upon it, skimmed along the streets. 

Sometimes, alighting at the doors of churches and vast 
palaces, I wandered on, from room to room, from aisle to 
aisle, through labyrinths of rich altars, ancient monuments ; 
decayed apartments where the furniture, half awful, half gro- 
tesque, was mouldering away. Pictures were there, replete 
with such enduring beauty and expression : with such passion, 
truth and power : that they seemed so many young and fresh 
realities among a host of spectres. I thought these, often 
intermingled with the old days of "the city : with its beauties, 
tyrants^ captains, patriots, merchants, courtiers, priests : nay, 
with its very stones, and bricks, and public places ; all of 
which lived again, about me, on the walls. Then, coming 
down some marble staircase where the water lapped and 
oozed against the lower steps, I passed into my boat again, 
and went on in my dream. 

Floating down narrow lanes, where carpenters, at work 
with plain and chisel in their shops, tossed the light shaving 
straight upon the water, where it lay like weed, or ebbed away 
before me in a. tangled heap. Past open doors, decayed and 
rotten from long steeping in the wet, through which some scanty 
patch of vine shone green and bright, making unusual shad- 
ows on the pavement with its trembling leaves. Past quays 
and terraces, where women, gracefully veiled, were passing 
and repassing, and where idlers were reclining in the sun- 
shine, on flagstones and on flights of steps. Past bridges, 
where there were idlers too ; loitering and looking over. 
Below stone balconies, erected at a giddy height, before the 
loftiest windows of the loftiest houses. Past plots of garden, 
theatres, shrines, prodigious piles of architecture — Gothic — 
Saracenic — fanciful with all the fancies of all times and 
countries. Past buildings that were high, and low, and Hack, 
and white, and straight, and crooked • mean and grand, crazy 
and strong. Twining among a tangled lot of boats and 



i$C PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

barges, and shooting out at last into a Grand Canal ! There, 
in the errant fancy of my dream, I saw old Shylock passing to 
and fro upon a bridge, all" built upon with shops and hum- 
ming with the tongues of men ; a form I seemed to know for 
Desdemona's, leaned down through a latticed blind to pluck 
a flower. And, in the dream, I thought that Shakspeare's 
spirit was abroad upon the water somewhere : stealing through 
the city. 

At night, when two votive lamps burnt before an image 
of the Virgin, in a gallery outside the great cathedral, near the 
roof 7 I fancied that the great piazza of the Winged Lion was 
a blaze of cheerful light, and that its whole arcade was thronged 
with people; while crowds were diverting themselves in 
splendid coffee-houses opening from it — which were never 
>hut, I thought, but open all night long. When the bronze 
giants struck the hour of midnight on the bell, I thought the 
life and animation of the city were all centred here ; and as I 
rowed away, abreast the silent quays, I only saw them dotted, 
here and there, with sleeping boatmen wrapped up in their 
cloaks, and lying at full length upon the stones. 

But close about the quays and churches, palaces and pris- 
ons : sucking at their walls, and welling up into the secret 
places of the town : crept the water always. Noiseless and 
watchful : coiled round and round it, in its many folds, like 
an old serpent: waiting for the time, I thought, when people 
.should look down into its depths for any stone of the old city 
that had claimed to be its mistress. 

Thus it floated me away, until I awoke in the old market- 
place at Verona. I have, many and many a time, thought 
since, of this strange Dream upon the water : half-wondering 
if it lie there yet, and if its name be Venice. 



BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE 
PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND. 

I had been half afraid to go to Verona, lest it should at 
all put me out of conceit with Romeo and Juliet. But, I was 
no; sooner come into the old- market-place, than the misgiving 
vanished. It is so fanciful, quaint, and picturesque a place. 



PICTURES FROM ITALY 



487 



formed by such an extraordinary and rich variety of fantastic 
buildings, that there could be nothing better at the core of 
even this romantic town : scene of one of the most romantic 
and beautiful of stories. 

It was natural enough, to go straight from the Market- 
place, to the House of the Capulets, now degenerated into a 
most miserable little inn. Noisy vetturini and muddy market- 
carts were disputing possession of the yard, which was ankle- 
deep in dirt, with a brood of splashed and bespattered geese ; 
and there was a grim-visaged dog, viciously panting in a 
door-way, who would certainly have had Romeo by the leg, 
the moment he put it over the wall, if he had existed and 
been at large in those times. The orchard fell into other 
hands, and was parted off many years ago ; but there used to 
\>e one attached to the house — or at all events there may 
have been, — and the hat (Cappello) the ancient cognizance of 
1 he family, may still be seen, carved in stone, over the gate- 
way of the yard. The geese, the market-carts, their drivers, 
r,nd the dog, were somewhat in the way of the story, it must 
be confessed ; and it would have been pleasanter to have 
found the house empty, and to have been able to walk 
vhrough the disused rooms. But the hat was unspeakably 
1 comfortable ; and the place where the garden used to be, 
!/iardly less so. Besides, the house is a distrustful, jealous- 
I ooking house as one would desire to see, though of a very 
moderate size. So I was quite satisfied with it, as the veri- 
table mansion of old Capulet, and was correspondingly grate- 
ful in my acknowledgments to an extremely unsentimental 
middle-aged lady, the Padrona of the Hotel, who was loung- 
ing on the threshold looking at the geese • and who at least 
resembled the Capulets in the one particular of being very 
great indeed in the " Family " way. 

From Juliet's home, to Juliet's tomb, is a transition as 
natural to the visitor, as to fair Juliet herself, or to the proud- 
est Juliet that ever has taught the torches to burn bright in 
any time. So, I went off, with a guide, to an old, old garden, 
once belonging to an old, old convent, I suppose • and being 
admitted, at a shattered gate, by a bright-eyed woman who 
was washing clothes, went down some walks where fresh 
plants and young flowers were prettily growing among frag- 
ments of old wall, and ivy-covered mounds ; and was shown a 
little tank, or water-trough, which the bright-eyed woman- 
drying her arms upon her 'kerchief, called " La tomba di 



^SS PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

Giulietta las fortunata." With the best disposition m the 
world to believe, I could do no more than believe that the 
bright-eyed woman believed ; so I gave her that much credit, 
and her customary fee in ready money. It was a pleasure, 
rather than a disappointment, that Juliet's resting-place was 
forgotten. However consolatory it may have been to Yorick\s 
Ghost, to hear the feet upon the pavement overhead, and, 
twenty times a day, the repetition of his name, it is better for 
Juliet to lie out of the track of tourists, and to have no visit- 
ors but such as come to graves in spring-rain, and sweet air, 
and sunshine. 

Pleasant Verona ! With its beautiful old palaces, and 
charming country in the distance, seen from terrace walks, 
and stately, ballustraded galleries. With its Roman gates, 
still spanning the fair street, and casting on the sunlight of 
to-day, the shade of fifteen hundred years ago. With its 
marble-fitted churches, lofty towers, rich architecture, and 
quaint old quiet thoroughfares, where shouts of Montagues 
and Capulets once resounded, 

And made Verona's ancient citizens 

Cast by their grave, beseeming ornaments, 

To wield old partizans. 

With its fast-rushing river, picturesque old bridge, great 
castle, waving cypresses, and prospect so delightful, and so 
cheerful ! Pleasant Verona ! 

In the midst of it, in the Piazza di Bra — a spirit of eld 
time among the familiar realities of the passing hour — is the 
great Roman Amphitheatre. So well preserved, and carefully 
maintained, that every row of seats is there, unbroken. Over 
certain cf the arches, the old Roman numerals may yet be 
seen ; and there are corridors, and staircases, and subterra- 
nean passages for beasts, and winding ways, above ground and 
below, as when the fierce thousands hurried in and out, in- 
tent upon the bloody shows of the arena. Nestling in some 
of the shadows and hollow places of the walls, now, are smiths 
with their forges, and a few small dealers of one kind or 
other ; and there are green weeds, and leaves, and grass, upon 
the parapet. But little else is greatly changed. 

When I had traversed ail about it, with great interest, and 
had gone up to the topmost round of seats, and turning from 
the lovely: '^panorama closed in by the distant Alps, looked 
down into the building, it seemed to lie before me like the in- 
side of a prodigious hat of plaited straw, with an enormously 



FJC TURKS FROM I TA L Y 489 

broad brim and a shallow crown ; the plaits being represented 
by the four-and-forty rows of seats. The comparison is a 
homely and fantastic one, in sober remembrance and on 
paper, but it was irresistibly suggested at the moment, never- 
theless. 

An equestrian troop had been there, a short time before — ■ 
the same troop, I dare say, that appeared to the old lady in 
the church at Modena — and had scooped out a little ring at 
one end of the arena ; where their performances had taken 
place, and where the marks of their horses' feet were still 
fresh. I could not but picture to myself, a handful of specta- 
tors gathered together on one or two of the old stone seats, and 
a spangled Cavalier being gallant, or a Policinello funny, with 
the grim walls looking on. Above all, I thought how 
strangely those Roman mutes would gaze upon the favorite 
comic scene of the travelling English, where a British noble- 
man (Lord John), with a very loose stomach : dressed in a 
blue tailed coat down to his heels, bright yellow breeches, and 
a white hat : comes abroad, riding double on a rearing horse, 
with an English lady (Lady Betsy) in a straw bonnet and 
green veil, and a red spencer ; and who always carries a gi- 
gantic reticule, and a put-up parasol. 

I walked through and through the town all the rest of the 
day, and could have walked there until now, I think. In one 
place, there was a very pretty modern theatre, where they had 
just performed the opera (always popular in Verona) of 
Romeo and Juliet. In another there was a collection, under 
a colonnade, of Greek, Roman, and Etruscan remains, pre- 
sided over by an ancient man who might have been an Etruscan 
relic himself; for he was not strong enough to open the iron 
gate, when he had unlocked it, and had neither voice enough 
to be audible when he described the curiosities, nor sight 
enough to see them ; he was so very old. In another place, 
there was a gallery of pictures : so abominably bad, that it 
was quite delightful to see them mouldering away. But any- 
where : in the churches, among the palaces, in the streets, on 
the bridge, or down beside the river : it was always pleasant 
Verona, and in my remembrance always will be. 

I read Romeo and Juliet in my own room at the inn that 
night — of course, no Englishman had ever read it there, be- 
fore — and set out for Mantua next day at sunrise, repeating 
to myself (in the coupe of an omnibus, and next to the con- 
ductor, who was reading the Mysteries pf Paris), 



49 o PIC 7T RES FROM ITAL Y. 

There is no world without Verona's walls 
But purgatory, torture, hell itself. 
Hence-banished is banished from the world, 
And world's exile is death — — 

which reminded me that Romeo was only banished five-and 
twenty miles after all, and rather disturbed my confidence in 
his energy and boldness. 

Was the way to Mantua as beautiful, in his time, I won- 
der ! Did it wind through pasture land as green, bright with 
the same glancing streams, and dotted with fresh clumps of 
graceful trees ! Those purple mountains lay on the horizon, 
then, for certain : and the dresses of these peasant girls, who 
wear a great, knobbed, silver pin like an English '"life-pre- 
server " through their hair behind, can hardly be much changed. 
The hopeful feeling of so bright a morning, and so exquisite 
a sunrise, can have been no stranger, even to an exiled lover's 
breast ■ and Mantua itself, must have broken on him in the 
prospect, with its towers, and walls, and water, pretty much 
as on a common-place and matrimonial omnibus. He made 
the same sharp twists and turns, perhaps, over two rumbling 
drawbridges ; passed through the like long, covered, wooden 
bridge ; and leaving the marshy water behind, approached 
the rusty gate of stagnant Mantua. 

If ever a man were suited to his place of residence, and 
his place of residence to him, the lean Apothecary and Mantua 
came together in a perfect fitness of things. It may have been 
more stirring then, perhaps. If so, the Apothecary was a man 
in advance of his time, and knew what Mantua would be, in 
eighteen hundred and forty-four. He fasted much, and that 
assisted him in his foreknowledge. 

I put up at the Hotel of the Golden Lion, and was in my 
own room arranging plans with the brave Courier, when there 
came a modest little tap at the door, which opened on an 
outer gallery surrounding a court-yard • and an intensely 
shabby little man looked in, to inquire if the gentleman would 
have a Cicerone to show the town. His face was so very 
wistful and anxious, in the half-opened doorway, and there 
was so much poverty expressed in his faded suit and little 
pinched hat, and in the thread-bare worsted glove with which 
he held it — not expressed the less, because these were 
evidently his genteel clothes, hastily slipped on — that I would 
as soon have trodden on him as dismissed him. I engaged 
him on the instant, and he stepped in directly. 

While I finished the discussion in which I was engaged, 



PIC TURES FR OM ITAL V. 49 1 

he stood, beaming by himself in a corner, making a feint of 
brushing my hat with his arm. If his fee had been as many 
napoleons as it was francs, there could not have shotoverthe 
twilight of his shabbiness such a gleam of sun, as lighted up 
the whole man, now that he was hired. 

" Well ! " said I, when I was ready, " shall we go out 
now?" 

" If the gentleman pleases. It is a beautiful day. A little 
fresh, but charming • altogether charming. The gentleman 
will allow me to open the door. This is the Inn Yard. The 
court-yard of the Golden Lion ! The gentleman will please 
to mind his footing on the stairs." 

We were now in the street. . 

" This is the street of the Golden Lion. This, the outside 
of the Golden Lion. The interesting window up there, on the 
first Piano, where the pane of glass is broken, is the window 
of the gentleman's chamber ! " 

Having viewed all these remarkable objects, I inquired if 
there were much to see in Mantua. 

"Well ! Truly, no. Not much ! So, so," he said, shrug- 
ging his shoulders apologetically. 

" Many churches? " 

" No. Nearly all sujDpressed by the French." 

" Monasteries or convents ? " 

" No. The French again ! Nearly all suppressed by 
Napoleon." 

" Much business ? " 

" Very little business.' 

" Many strangers ? " 

" Ah Heaven ! " 

I thought he would have fainted. 

" Then, when we have seen the two large churches yonder, 
what shall we do next ? " said I. 

He looked up the street, and down the street, and rubbed 
his chin timidly ; and then said, glancing in my face as if a 
light had broken on his mind, yet with an humble appeal to 
my forbearance that was perfectly irresistible : 

" We can take a little turn about the town, Signore ! " (Si 
pu6 far 'un piccolo giro della citta.) 

" It was impossible to be anything but delighted with the 
proposal, so we set off together in great good-humor. In the 
relief of his mind, he opened his heart, and gave up as much 
of Mantua as a Cicerone could. 



49 2 PIC TURKS FROM I TA L Y. 

" One must eat," he said ; " but, bah ! it was a dull place, 
without doubt ! " 

He made as much as possible of the Basilica of Santa 
Andrea — a noble church — and of an inclosed portion of the 
pavement, about which tapers were burning, and a few people 
kneeling, and under which is said to be preserved the Sang- 
real of the old Romances. This church disposed of, and an- 
other after it (the cathedral of San Pietro), we went to tlie 
Museum, which was shut up. " It was all the same," he said ; 
" Bah ! There was not much inside ! " Then, we went to see 
the Piazza del Diavolo, built by the Devil (for no particular 
purpose) in a single night ; then, the Piazza Virgiliana ; then, 
the statue of Virgil — our Poet, my little friend said, plucking 
up a spirit, for a moment, and putting his hat a little on one 
side. Then we went to a dismal sort of farm-yard, by which 
a picture gallery was approached. The moment the gate of 
this retreat was opened, some five hundred geese came wad- 
dling round us, stretching out their necks, and clamoring in 
the most hideous manner, as if they were ejaculating, " Oh ! 
here's somebody come to see the Pictures ! Don't go up ! 
Don't go up ! " While we went up, they waited very quietly 
about the door in a crowd, cackling to one another occasion- 
ally, in a subdued tone ; but the instant we appeared again, 
their necks came out like telescopes, and setting up a great 
noise, which meant, I have no doubt, "What, you would go, 
would you ! What do you think of it ! How do you like it ! '* 
they attended us to the outer gate, and cast us forth, deri- 
sively, into Mantua. 

The geese who saved the Capitol, were, as compared to 
these, Pork to -the learned Pig. What a gallery it was ! I 
would take their opinion on a question of art, in preference 
to the discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

Now that we were standing in the street, after being thus 
ignominiously escorted thither, my little friend was plainly re- 
duced to the " piccolo giro," or little circuit of the town, he had 
formerly proposed. But my suggestion that we should visit 
the Palazzo Te (of which I had heard a great deal, as a 
strange wild place) imparted new life to him, and away we 
went. 

The secret of the length of Midas's ears, would have been 
more extensively known, if that servant of his, who whispered 
it to the reeds, had lived in Mantua, where there are reeds and 
rushes enough to have published it to all the world. The 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



493 



Palazzo Te stands in a swamp, among this sort of vegetation ; 
and is, indeed, as singular a place as I ever saw. 

Not for its dreariness, though it is very dreary. Not for 
its dampness, though it is very damp. Not for its desolate 
condition, though it is as desolate and neglected as house can 
be. But chiefly for the unaccountable nightmares with which 
its interior has been decorated (among other subjects of more 
delicate execution), by Giulio Romano. There is a leering 
Giant over a certain chimney-piece, and there are dozens of 
Giants (Titans warring with Jove) on the walls of another 
room, so inconceivably ugly and grotesque, that it is marvel- 
lous how any man can have imagined such creatures. In the 
chamber in which they abound, these monsters, with swollen 
faces and cracked cheeks, and every kind of distortion of look 
and limb, are depicted as staggering under the weight of 
falling buildings, and being overwhelmed in the ruins ; up 
heaving masses of rock, and burying themselves beneath ; 
vainly striving to sustain the pillars of heavy roofs that topple 
down upon their heads ; and, in a word, undergoing and doing 
every kind of mad and demoniacal destruction. The figures 
are immensely large, and exaggerated to the utmost pitch 
of uncouthness ; the coloring is harsh and disagreeable ; 
and the whole effect most like (I should imagine) a vio- 
lent rush of blood to the head of the spectator, than any 
real picture set before him by the hand of an artist. This 
apoplectic performance was shown by a sickly-looking woman, 
whose appearance was referable, I dare say, to the bad air of 
the marshes ; but it was difficult to help feeling as if she were 
too much haunted by the Giants, and they were frightening 
her to death, all alone in that exhausted cistern of a Palace, 
among the reeds and rushes, with the mist hovering about 
outside, and stalking round and round it continually. 

Our walk through Mantua showed us, in almost every 
street, some suppressed church : now used for a warehouse, 
now for nothing at all : all as crazy and dismantled as they 
could be, short of tumbling down bodily. The marshy town 
was so intensely dull and flat, that the dirt upon it seemed 
not to have come there in the ordinary course, but to have 
settled and mantled on its surface as on standing water. And 
yet there were some business dealings going on, and some 
profits realizing ; for there were arcades full of Jews, where 
those extraordinary people were sitting outside their shops, 
contemplating their stores of stuffs, and woollens, and bright 



494 



PICTURES FROM ITALY, 



handkerchiefs, and trinkets ; and looking, in all respects, as 
war}' and business-like, as their brethren in Houndsditch, 
London. 

Having selected a Vetturino from among the neighboring 
Christians, who agreed to carry us to Milan in two days and 
a half, and to start, next morning, as soon as the gates were 
opened, I returned to the Golden Lion, and dined luxuriously 
in my own room, in a narrow passage between two bedsteads ; 
confronted by a smoky fire, and backed up by a chest of 
drawers. At six o'clock next morning, we were jingling in 
the dark through the wet cold mist that enshrouded the 
town ; and, before noon, the driver (a native of Mantua, and 
sixty years of age or thereabouts) began to ask the way to 
Milan. 

It lay through Bozzolo ; formerly a little republic, and now 
one of the most deserted and poverty-stricken of towns : 
where the landlord of the miserable inn (God bless him ! it 
was his weekly custom) was distributing infinitesimal coins 
among a clamorous herd of women and children, whose 
rags were fluttering in the wind and rain outside his door, 
where they were gathered to receive his charity. It lay 
through mist, and mud, and rain, and vines trained low 
upon the ground, all that day and the next ; the first sleep- 
ing-place being Cremona, memorable for its dark brick 
churches, and immensely high tower, the Torrazzo — to say 
nothing of its violins, of which it certainly produces none in 
these degenerate days ; and the second, Lodi. Then we went 
on, through more mud, mist, and rain, and marshy ground : 
and through such a fog, as Englishmen, strong in the faith of 
their own grievances, are apt to believe is nowhere to be 
found but in their own country, until we entered the paved 
streets of Milan. 

The fog was so dense here, that the spire of the far-famed 
Cathedral might as well have been at Bombay, for anything 
that could be seen of it at that time. But as we halted to re- 
fresh, for a few days then, and returned to Milan again next 
summer, I had ample opportunities of seeing the glorious 
structure in all its majesty and beauty. 

All Christian homage to the saint who lies within it ! There 
are many good and true saints in the calendar, but San Carlo 
Borromeo has — if I may quote Mrs. Primrose on such a sub- 
ject — " my warm heart." A charitable doctor to the sick, a 
munificent friend to the poor, and this, not in any spirit of 



PIC Tt RES FR OM ITALY 



495 



blind bigotry, but as the bold opponent of enormous abuses 
in the Romish church, I honor his memory. I honor it none 
the less, because he was nearly slain by a priest, suborned, 
by priests, to murder him at the altar : in acknowledgment of 
his endeavors to reform a false and hypocritical brotherhood 
of monks. Heaven shield all imitators of San Carlo Borromeo 
as it shielded him ! A reforming Pope would need a little 
shielding, even now. 

The subterranean chapel in which the body of San Carlo 
Borromeo is preserved, presents as striking and as ghastly a 
contrast, perhaps, as any place can show. The tapers which 
are lighted down there, flash and gleam on alti-rilievi in gold 
and silver, delicately wrought by skilful hands, and represent- 
ing the principal events in the life of the saint. Jewels, and 
precious metals, shine and sparkle on every side. A wind- 
lass slowly removes the front of the altar ; and, within it, in a 
gorgeous shrine of gold and silver, is seen, through alabaster, 
the shrivelled mummy of a man : the pontifical robes with 
which it is adorned, radiant with diamonds, emeralds, rubies ; 
every costly and magnificent gem. The shrunken heap of 
poor earth in the midst of this great glitter, is more pitiful than 
if it lay upon a dunghill. There is not a ray of imprisoned 
light in all the flash and fire of jewels, but seems to mock the 
dusty holes where eyes were, once. Every thread of silk in 
the rich vestments seems only a provision from the worms 
that spin, for the behoof of worms that propagate in sepul- 
chres. 

In the old refectory of the dilapidated Convent of Santa 
Maria delle Grazie, is the work of art, perhaps, better known 
than any other in the world : the Last Supper, by Leonardo 
da Vinci — with a door cut through it by the intelligent Do- 
mincan friars, to facilitate their operations at dinner time. 

I am not mechanically acquainted with the art of painting, 
and have no other means of judging of a picture than as I 
see it resembling and refining upon nature, and presenting 
graceful combinations of forms and colors. I am, therefore 
no authority whatever, in reference to the " touch " of this or 
that master; though I know very well (as anybody may, who 
chooses to think about the matter) that few very great mas- 
ters can possibly have painted, in the compass of their lives, 
one-half of the pictures that bear their names, and that are 
recognized by many aspirantsto a reputation, for taste, as un- 
doubted originals. But this, by the- way. Of the Last Sup 



49 6 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



per, I would simply observe, that in its beautiful composition 
and arrangement, there it is, at Milan, a wonderful picture, 
and that, in its original coloring, or in its original expression 
of any single face or feature, there it is not. Apart from the 
damage it has sustained from damp, decay, or neglect, it has 
been (as Barry shows) so retouched upon, and repainted, and 
that so clumsily, that many of the heads are, now, positive 
deformities, with patches of paint and plaster sticking upon 
them like wens, and utterly distorting the expression. Where 
the original artist set that impress of his genius on a face, 
which, almost in a line or touch, separated him from meaner 
painters ana! made him what he was, succeeding bunglers, 
filling up, or painting across seams and cracks, have been 
quite unable to imitate his hand ; and putting in some scowls, 
or frowns, or wrinkles, of their own, have blotched and spoiled 
the work. This is so well established as an historical fact, 
that I should not repeat it, at the risk of being tedious, but 
for having observed an English gentleman before the picture, 
who was at great pains to fall into what I may describe as 
mild convulsions, at certain minute details of expression which 
are not left in it. Whereas, it would be comfortable and 
rational for travellers and critics to arrive at a general under- 
standing that it cannot fail to have been a work of extraor- 
dinary merit, once : when, with so few of its original beauties 
remaining, the grandeur of the general design is yet sufficient 
to sustain it, as a piece replete with interest and dignity. 

We achieved the other sights of Milan, in due course, and 
a fine city it is, though not so unmistakably Italian as to 
possess the characteristic qualities of many towns far less im- 
portant in themselves. The Corso, where the Milanese gen- 
try ride up and down in carriages, and rather than not do 
which, they would half starve themselves at home, is a most 
noble public promenade, shaded by long avenues of trees. 
In the splendid theatre of La Scala, there was a ballet of 
action performed after the opera, under the title of Prome- 
theus : in the beginning of which, some hundred or two of 
men and women represented our mortal race before the re- 
finements of the arts and sciences, and loves and graces, came 
on earth to soften them. I never saw anything more effec- 
tive. Generally speaking, the Pantomimic action of the 
Italians is more remarkable for its sudden and impetuous 
character than for its delicate expression ; but, in this case, 
the drooping monotony : the weary, miserable, listless, moping 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 4 q 7 

life : the sordid passions and desires of human creatures, 
destitute of those elevating influences to which we owe so 
much, and to whose promoters we render so little ; were ex- 
pressed in a manner really powerful and affecting. I should 
have thought it almost impossible to present such an idea so 
strongly on the stage, without the aid of speech, 

Milan soon lay behind us, at five o'clock in the morning ; 
and before the golden statue on the summit of the cathedral 
spire, was lost in the blue sky, the Alps, stupendously con- 
fused in lofty peaks and ridges, clouds and snow, were tower- 
ing in our path. 

Still, we continued to advance toward them until night- 
fall ; and, all day long, the mountain tops presented strangely 
shifting shapes, as the road displayed them in different points 
of view. The beautiful day was just declining, when we came 
upon the Lago Maggiore, with its lovely islands. For how- 
ever fanciful and fantastic the Isola Bella may be, and is, it 
sjtill is beautiful. Anything springing out of that blue water, 
with that scenery around it, must be. 

It was ten o'clock at night when we got to Domo d'Ossola, 
at the foot of the Pass of the Simplon. But as the moon was 
shining brightly, and there was not a cloud in the starlit sky, 
it was no time for going to bed, or going anywhere but on. 
So, we got a little carriage, after some delay, and began the 
ascent. 

It was late in November ; and the snow lying four or five 
feet thick in the beaten road on the summit (in other parts 
i;he new drift was already deep), the air was piercing cold. 
But, the serenity of the night, and the grandeur of the road, 
with its impenetrable shadows, and deep glooms, and its sud- 
den turns into the shining of the moon, and its incessant roar 
of falling water, rendered the journey more and more sublime 
at every step. 

Soon leaving the calm Italian villages below us, sleeping 
in the moonlight, the road began to wind among dark trees, 
and after a time emerged upon a barer region, very steep and 
toilsome, where the moon shone bright and high. By degrees 
the roar of water grew louder ; and the stupendous track, 
after crossing the torrent by a bridge, struck in between two 
massive perpendicular walls of rock that quite shut out the 
moonlight, and only left a few stars shining in the narrow 
strip of sky above. Then, even this was lost, in the thick 
darkness of a cavern in the rock, through which the way was 



498 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

pierced ; the terrible cataract thundering and roaring close 
below it, and its foam and spray hanging, in a mist, about the 
entrance. Emerging from this cave, and coming again into the 
moonlight, and across a dizzy bridge, it crept and twisted up- 
ward, through the Gorge of Gondo, savage and grand beyond 
description, with smooth-fronted precipices, rising up on either 
hand, and almost meeting overhead. Thus we went, climbing 
on our rugged way, higher and higher all night, without a 
moment's weariness : lost in the contemplation of the black 
rocks, the tremendous heights and depths, the fields of smooth 
snow lying, in the clefts and hollows, and the fierce torrents 
thundering headlong down the deep abyss. 

Towards daybreak, we came among the snow, where a 
keen wind was blowing fiercely. Having, with some trouble, 
awakened the inmates of a wooden house in this solitude ; 
round which the wind was howling dismally, catching up the 
snow in wreaths and hurling it away : we got some breakfast 
in a room built of rough timbers, but well warmed by a stove, 
and well contrived (as it had need to be) for keeping out the 
bitter storms. A sledge being then made ready, and four 
horses harnessed to it, we went, ploughing, through the snow. 
Still upward, but now in the cold light of morning, and with 
the great white desert on which we travelled, plain and clear. 

We were well upon the summit of the mountain : and had 
before us the rude cross of wood, denoting its greatest alti- 
tude above the sea : when the light of the rising sun, struck, 
all at once, upon the waste of snow, and turned it a deep red. 
The lonely grandeur of the scene, was then at its height. 

As we went sledging on, there came out of the Hospice 
founded by Napoleon, a group of Peasant travellers, with 
staves and knapsacks, who had rested there last night: at- 
tended by a Monk or two, their hospitable entertainers, 
trudging slowly forward with them, for company's sake. It 
was pleasant to give them good-morning, and pretty, looking 
back a long way after them, to see them looking back at us, 
and hesitating presently, when one of our horses stumbled 
and fell, whether or no they should return and help us. But 
he was soon up again, with the assistance of a rough wag- 
oner whose team had stuck fast there too ; and When we had 
helped him out of his difficulty, in return, we left him slowly 
ploughing towards them, and went softly and swiftly forward, 
on the brink of a steep precipice, among the mountains 
pines. 



PIC TURES FR OM ITALY '. 49 g 

Taking to our wheels again, soon afterwards, we began 
rapidly to descend • passing under everlasting glaciers, by 
means of arched galleries, hung with clusters of dripping ici- 
cles ; under and over foaming waterfalls ; near places of refuge, 
and galleries of shelter against sudden danger ; through 
caverns over whose arched roofs the avalanches slide, in 
spring, and bury themselves in the unknown gulf beneath. 
Down, over lofty bridges, and through horrible ravines : a 
little shifting speck in the vast desolation of ice and snow, 
and monstrous granite rocks ; down through the deep Gorge 
of the Saltine, and deafened by the torrent plunging madly 
down, among the riven blocks of rock, into the level country, 
far below. Gradually down, by zig-zag roads, lying between an 
upward and a downward precipice, into warmer weather, calmer 
air, and softer scenery, until there lay before us, glittering liki 
gold or silver in the thaw and sunshine, the metal-covered, 
red, green, yellow, domes and church-spires of a Swiss town. 

The business of these recollections being with Italy, and 
my business, consequently, being to scamper back thither as 
fast as possible, I will not recall (though I am sorely tempted) 
how the Swiss villages, clustered at the feet of Giant moun- 
tains, looked like playthings ; or how confusedly the houses 
were heaped and piled together ; or how there were very 
narrow streets to shut the howling winds out in the winter 
time ; and broken bridges, which the impetuous torrents, 
suddenly released in spring, had swept away. Or how 
there were peasant women here, with great round fur caps : 
looking, when they peeped out of casements and only their 
heads were seen, like a population of Sword-bearers to the 
Lord Mayor of London • or how the town of Vevay, lying on 
the smooth lake of Geneva, was beautiful to see ; or how the 
statue of Saint Peter in the street at Fribourg, grasps the 
largest key that ever was beheld ; or how Fribourg is illustri- 
ous for its two suspension bridges, and its grand cathedral 
organ. 

Or how, between that town and Bale, the road meandered 
among thriving villages of wooden cottages, with overhanging 
thatched roofs, and low protruding windows, glazed with 
small round panes of glass like crown-pieces ; or how, in 
every little Swiss homestead, with its cart or wagon carefully 
stowed away beside the house, its little garden, stock of 
poultry, and groups of red-cheeked children, there was an 
air of comfort, very new and very pleasant after Italy ; or how 



5 o o PIC TURES FK QM ITALY. 

the dresses of the women changed again, and there were no 
more sword-bearers to be seen ; and fair white stomachers, 
and great black, fan-shaped, gauzy-looking caps, prevailed 
instead. 

Or how the country by the Jura mountains, sprinkled with 
snow, and lighted by the moon, and musical with falling water, 
was delightful ; or how, below the windows of the great hotel 
of the Three Kings at Bale, the swollen Rhine ran fast and 
green ■ or how, at Strasbourg, it was quite as. fast but not as 
green : and was said to be foggy lower down : and, at that late 
time of the year, was a far less certain means of progress, than 
the highway road to Paris. 

Or how Strasbourg itself, in its magnificent old Gothic 
Cathedral, and its ancient houses with their peaked roofs and 
gables, made a little gallery of quaint and interesting views ; 
or how a crowd was gathered inside the cathedral at noon, to 
see the famous mechanical clock in motion, striking twelve. 
How, when it struck twelve, a whole army of puppets went 
through man) 7 ingenious evolutions ; and, among them, a huge 
puppet-cock, perched on the top, crowed twelve times, loud 
and clear. Or how it was wonderful to see this cock at great 
pains to clap its wings, and strain its throat ; but obviously 
having no connection whatever with its own voice ; which was 
deep within the clock, a long way down. 

Or how the road to Paris was one sea of mud, and thence 
to the coast, a little better for a hard frost. Or how the cliffs 
of Dover were a pleasant sight, and England was so wonder- 
fully neat — though dark, and lacking color on a winter's clay, 
it must be conceded. 

Or how, a few days afterwards, it was cool, recrossing the 
channel, with ice upon the decks, and snow 7 lying pretty deep 
in France. Or how the Malle Poste scrambled through the 
snow, headlong, drawn in the hilly parts by any number of 
stout horses at a canter ; or how there were, outside the Post- 
office Yard in Paris, before daybreak, extraordinary adven- 
turers in heaps of rags, groping in the snowy streets with little 
rakes, in search of odds and ends. 

Or how, between Paris and Marseilles, the snow being 
then exceeding deep, a thaw came on, and the mail waded 
rather than rolled for the next three hundred miles or so ; 
breaking springs on Sunday nights, and putting out its two 
passengers to warm and refresh themselves pending the re- 
pairs, in miserable billiard-rooms, where hairy company, col- 



PIC TURKS FR 0. 1/ ITA LY. 5 o I 

lected about stoves, were playing cards ; the cards being very 
like themselves — extremely limp and dirty. 

Or how there was detention at Marseilles from stress of 
weather ; and steamers were advertised to go, which did not 
go ; or how the good Steam-packet Charlemagne at length put 
out, and met such weather that now she threatened to run 
into Toulon, and now into Nice, but, the wind moderating, did 
neither, but ran on into Genoa harbor instead, where the fa- 
miliar Bells rang sweetly in my ear. Or how there was a 
travelling party on board, of whom one member was very ill 
in the cabin next to mine, and being ill was cross, and there- 
fore declined to give up the Dictionary, which he kept under 
his pillow ; thereby obliging his companions to come down to 
him, constantly, to ask what was the Italian for a lump of 
s ugar — a glass of brandy and water — what's o'clock ? and so 
iorth : which he always insisted on looking out, with' his own 
sea-sick eyes, declining to entrust the book to any man alive. 

Like Grumio, I might have told you, in detail, all this and 
something more — but to as little purpose — were I not deterred 
by the remembrance that my business is with Italy. There- 
fore, like Grumio's story, "it shall die in oblivion." 



TO ROME BY PISA AND SIENA. 

There is nothing in Italy, more beautiful to me, than the 
coast-road between Genoa and Spezzia. On one side : some- 
times far below, sometimes nearly on a level with the road, 
and often skirted by broken rocks of many shapes : there is 
the free blue sea, with here and there a picturesque felucca 
gliding slowly on ; on the other side are lofty hills, ravines be- 
sprinkled with white cottages, patches of dark olive woods, 
country churches with their light open towers, and country 
houses gayly painted. On every bank and knoll by the way- 
side, the wild cactus and aloe flourish in exuberant profusion ; 
and the gardens of the bright villages along the road, are seen 
all blushing in the summer-time with clusters of the Bella- 
donna, and are fragrant in the autumn and winter with golden 
oranges and lemons. 

Some of the villages are inhabited, almost exclusively, by 
22 



j^02 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

fishermen ; and it is pleasant to see their great boats hauled 
up on the beach, making little patches' -of shade, where they 
lie asleep, or where the women and children sit romping and 
looking out to sea, while they mend their nets upon the shore. 
There is one town, Camoglia, with its little harbor A on the sea, 
hundreds of feet below the road ; where families of mariners 
live, who, time out of mind, have owned coasting-vessels in 
that place, and have traded to Spain and elsewhere. Seen 
from the road above, it is like a tiny model on the margin of 
the dimpled water, shining in the sun. Descended into, by 
the winding mule-tracks, it is a perfect miniature of a primi- 
tive seafaring town ; the saltest, roughest, most piratical little 
place that ever was seen. Great rusty iron rings and mooring- 
chains, capstans, and fragments of old masts and spars, choke 
up the way ; hardy rough-weather boats, and seamen's cloth- 
ing, flutter in the little harbor or are drawn out on the sunny- 
stones to dry ; on the parapet of the rude pier, a few amphib- 
ious-looking fellows lie asleep, with their legs dangling over 
the wall, as though earth or water were all one to them, and 
if they slipped in, they would float away, dozing comfortably 
among the fishes ; the church is bright with trophies of the 
sea, and votive offerings, in commemoration of escape from 
storm and shipwreck. The dwellings not immediately abut- 
ting on the harbor are approached by blind low archways, and 
by crooked steps, as if in darkness and in difficulty of access 
they should be like holds of ships, or inconvenient cabins 
under water ; and everywhere, there is a smell of fish, and sea- 
weed, and old rope. 

The coast-road whence Camoglia is descried so far below, 
is famous, in the warm season, especially in some parts near 
Genoa, for fire-flies. Walking there on a dark night, I have 
seen it made one sparkling firmament by these beautiful in- 
sects : so that the distant stars were pale against the flash and 
glitter that spangled every olive wood and hill-side, and per- 
vaded the whole air. 

It was not in such a season, however, that we traversed 
this road on our way to Rome. The middle of January was 
only just past, and it was very gloomy and dark weather ; very 
wet besides. In crossing the fine pass of Bracco, we en- 
countered such a storm of mist and rain, that we travelled in 
a cloud the whole way. There might have been no Medi- 
terranean in the world, for anything that we saw of it there, 
except when a sudden gust of wind, clearing the mist before 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. - «. 

it, for a moment, showed the agitated sea at a great depth 
below, lashing the distant rocks, and spouting up its foam 
furiously. The rain was incessant ; every brook and torrent 
was greatly swollen • and such a deafening leaping, and roar- 
ing, and thundering of water, I never heard the like of in my 
life. 

Hence, when we came to Spezzia, we found that the Magra, 
an unbridged river on the high-road to Pisa, was too high to 
be safely crossed in the Ferry Boat, and were fain to wait 
until the afternoon of next day, when it had, in some degree, 
subsided. Spezzia, however, is a good place to tarry at • by 
reason, firstly, of its beautiful bay ; secondly, of its ghostly 
Inn ; thirdly, of the head-dress of the women, who wear, on 
one side of their head, a small doll's straw hat, stuck on to 
the hair ; which is certainly the oddest and most roguish 
head-gear that ever was invented. 

The Magra safely crossed in the Ferry Boat — the passage, 
is not by any means agreeable, when the current is swollen and 
strong — we arrived at Carrara, within a few hours. In good 
time next morning, we got some ponies, and went out to seii 
the marble quarries. 

They are four or five great glens, running up into a range 
of lofty hills, until they can run no longer, and are stopped by 
being abruptly strangled by Nature. The quarries, " or 
caves," as they call them there, are so many openings, high 
up in the hills, on either side of these passes, where they blast 
and excavate for marble : which may turn out good or bad " 
may make a man's fortune very quickly, or ruin him by thu 
great expense of working what is worth nothing. Some of 
these caves were opened by the ancient Romans, and remain 
as they left them to this hour. Many others are being worked 
at this moment ; others are to be begun to-morrow, next week, 
next month ; others are unbought, unthought of • and marble 
enough for more ages than have passed since the place was 
resorted to, lies hidden everywhere : patiently awaiting its 
time of discovery. 

As you toil and clamber up one of these steep gorges 
(having left your pony soddening his girths in water, a mile or 
two lower down) you hear, every now and then, echoing 
among the hills, in a low tone, more silent than the previous 
silence, a melancholy warning bugle, — a signal to the miners 
to withdraw. Then, there is a thundering, and echoing from 
hill to hill, and perhaps a splashing up of great fragments of 



5 04 PfCT&J&SS /■'A'O.V ri'AI.Y. 

rock into the air ; and on you toil again until some othei 
bugle sounds, in a new direction, and you stop directly, lest 
you should come within the range of the new explosion. 

There were numbers of men, working high up in these hills 
— on the sides — clearing away, and sending down the broken 
masses of stone and earth, to make way for the blocks of 
marble that had been discovered. As these came rolling 
down from unseen hands into the narrow valley, I could not 
help thinking of the deep glen (just the same sort of glen ) 
where the Roc left Sinbad the Sailor ; and where the mer 
chants from the heights above, flung clown great pieces of 
meat for the diamonds to stick to. There were no eagles 
here to darken the sun in their swoop, and pounce upon them ; 
but it was as wild and fierce as if there had been hundreds. 

But the road, the road down which the marble comes, how- 
ever immense the blocks ! The genius of the country, and the 
•jpirit of its institutions, pave that road : repair it, watch it, 
keep it going ! Conceive a channel of water running over a 
rocky bed, beset with great heaps of stone of all shapes and 
,'?izes, winding down the middle of this valley ; and that being 
the road — because it was the road five hundred years ago ! 
Imagine the clumsy carts of five hundred years ago, being 
used to this hour, and drawn, as they used to be, five hundred 
years ago, by oxen, whose ancestors were worn to death five 
hundred years ago, as their unhappy descendants are now, in 
twelve months, by the suffering and agony of this cruel work ! 
Two pair, four pair, ten pair, twenty pair, to one block, accord- 
ing to its size ; down it must come, this way. In their strug- 
gling from stone to stone, with their enormous loads behind 
them, they die frequently upon the spot ; and not they alone ; 
for their passionate drivers, sometimes tumbling down in their 
energy, are crushed to death beneath the wheels. But it was 
good five hundred years ago, and it must be good now : and 
a railroad down one of these steeps (the easiest thing in the 
world) would be flat blasphemy. 

When we stood aside, to see one of these cars drawn by 
only a pair of oxen (for it had but one small block of marble 
on it), coming down, I hailed, in my heart, the man who sat 
upon the heavy yoke, to keep it on the neck of the poor beasts 
— and who faced backwards : not before him — as the very 
Devil of true despotism. He had a great rod in his hand, 
with an iron point ; and when they could plough and force 
their way through the loose bed of the torrent no longer, and 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 505 

came to a stop, he poked it into their bodies, beat it on their 
heads, screwed it round and round in their nostrils, got them 
on a yard or two, in the madness of intense pain • repeated 
all these persuasions, with increased intensity of purpose, 
when they stopped again ; got them on, once more • forced and 
goaded them to an abrupter point of the descent ; and when 
their writhing and smarting, and the weight behind them, 
bore them plunging down the precipice in a cloud of scattered 
water, whirled his rod above his head, and gave a great whoop 
and halio, as if he had achieved something, and had no idea 
that they might shake him off, and blindly mash his brains 
upon the road, in the noon-tide of his triumph. 

Standing in one of the many studii of Carrara, that after- 
noon — for it is a great workshop, full of beautifully-finished 
copies in marble, of almost every figure, group, and bust, we 
know — it seemed, at first, so strange to me that those exquisite 
shapes, replete with grace, and thought, and delicate repose, 
should grow out of all this toil, and sweat, and torture ! But 
I soon found a parallel to it, and an explanation of it, in every 
virtue that springs up in miserable ground, and every good 
thing that has its birth in sorrow and distress. And, looking 
out of the sculptor's great window, upon the marble mountains, 
all red and glowing in the decline of day, but stern and solemn 
to the last, I thought, my God ! how many quarries of human 
hearts and souls, capable of far more beautiful results, are left 
shut up and mouldering away : while pleasure-travellers 
through life, avert their faces, as they pass, and shudder at 
the gloom and ruggedness that conceal them ! 

The then reigning Duke of Modena, to whom this territory 
in part belonged, claimed the proud distinction of being the 
only sovereign in Europe who had not recognized Louis- 
Philippe as King of the French ! He was not a wag, but 
quite in earnest. He was also much opposed to railroads ; 
and if certain lines in contemplation by other potentates, on 
either side of him, had been executed, would have probably 
enjoyed the satisfaction of having an omnibus plying to and 
fro across his not very vast dominions, to forward travellers 
f r om one terminus to another. 

Carrara, shut in by great hills, is very picturesque and 
bold. Few tourists stay there ; and the people are nearly all 
connected, in one way or other, with the working of marble. 
There are also villages among the caves, where the workmen 
live. It contains a beautiful little Theatre, newly built ; and 



5 06 PIC TURKS FR OM II AL Y. 

it is an interesting custom there, to form the chorus of labor 
ers in the marble quarries, who are self-taught and sing by ear. 
I heard them in a comic opera, and in an act of " Norma ; " 
and they acquitted themselves very well ; unlike the common 
people of Italy generally, who (with some exceptions among 
the Neapolitans) sing vilely out of tune, and have very dis- 
agreeable singing voices. 

From the summit of a lofty hill beyond Carrara, the first 
view of the fertile plain in which the town of Pisa lies — with 
Leghorn, a purple spot in the flat distance — is enchanting. 
Nor is it only distance that lends enchantment to the view ; 
for the fruitful country, and rich woods of olive-trees through 
which the road subsequently passes, render it delightful. 

The moon was shining when we approached Pisa, and for 
a long time we could see, behind the wall, the leaning Tower, 
all awry in the uncertain light ; the shadowy original of the 
old pictures in school-books, setting forth " The Wonders of 
the World." Like most things connected in their first asso- 
ciations with school-books and school-times, it was too small. 
I felt it keenly. It was nothing like so high above the wall 
as I had hoped. It was another of the many deceptions 
practised by Mr. Harris, Bookseller, at the corner of St. Paul's 
Churchyard, London. His Tower w r as a fiction, but this was 
a reality — and, by comparison, a short reality. Still, it looked 
very well, and very strange, and was quite as much out of the 
perpendicular as Harris had represented it to be. The quiet 
air of Pisa too ; the big guard-house at the gate, with only two 
little soldiers in it ; the streets with scarcely any show of people 
in them ; and the Arno, flowing quaintly through the centre 
of the town ; were excellent. So, I bore no malice in my heart 
against Mr. Harris (remembering his good intentions), but for- 
gave him before dinner, and went out, full of confidence, to 
see the Tower next morning. 

I might have known better ; but, somehow, I had expected 
to see it, casting its long shadow on a public street where peo- 
ple came and went all day. It was a surprise to me to find it 
in a grave retired place, apart from the general resort, and 
carpeted with smooth green turf. But, the group of buildings, 
clustered on and about this verdant carpet : comprising the 
Tower, the Baptistery, the Cathedral, and the Church of the 
Campo Santo : is perhaps the most remarkable and beautiful 
in the whole world ; and from being clustered there, together, 
away from the ordinary transactions and details of the town, 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y 



507 



they have a singularly venerable and impressive character. It 
is the architectural essence of a rich old city, with all its 
common life and common habitations pressed out, and filtered 
away. 

Simond compares the Tower to the usual pictorial repre- 
sentations in children's books of the Tower of Babel. It is 
a happy simile, and conveys a better idea of the building than 
chapters of labored description. Nothing can exceed the 
grace and lightness of the structure ; nothing can be more re- 
markable than its general appearance. In the course of the 
ascent to the top (which is by an easy staircase), the inclina- 
tion is not very apparent ; but, at the summit, it becomes so, 
and gives one the sensation of being in a ship that has heeled 
over, through the' action of an ebb-tide. The effect upon the 
low side, so to speak — looking over from the gallery, and see- 
ing the shaft recede to its base — is very startling • and I saw 
a nervous traveller hold on to the Tower involuntarily, after 
glancing down, as if he had some idea of propping it up. The 
view within, from the ground — looking up, as through a 
slanted tube — is also very curious. It certainly inclines as 
much as the most sanguine tourist could desire. The natural 
impulse of ninety-nine people out of a hundred, who were 
about to recline upon the grass below it, to rest, and contem- 
plate the adjacent buildings, would probably be, not to take up 
their position under the leaning side ; it is so very much 
aslant. 

The manifold beauties of the Cathedral and Baptistery 
need no recapitulation from me ; though in this case, as in a 
hundred others, I find it difficult to separate my own delight 
in recalling them, from your weariness in having them re- 
called. There is a picture of St. Agnes, by Andrea del Sarto, 
in the former, and there are a variety of rich columns in the 
latter, that tempt me strongly. 

It is, I hope, no breach of my resolution not to be tempted 
into elaborate descriptions, to remember the Campo Santo ; 
where grass-grown graves are dug in earth brought more than 
six hundred years ago, from the Holy Land • and where there 
are, surrounding them, such cloisters, with such playing lights 
and shadows falling through their delicate tracery on the 
stone pavement, as surely the dullest memory could never 
forget. On the- Walls of this solemn and lovely place, are 
ancient frescoes, very much obliterated and decayed, but very 
curious. As usually happens in almost any collection of 



5 o8 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



paintings, of any sort, in Italy, where*, there are many heads, 
there is, in one of them, a striking accidental likeness of Na- 
poleon. At one time, I used to please my fancy with the 
speculation whether these old painters, at their work, had a 
foreboding knowledge of the man who would one day arise to 
wreak such destruction upon art : whose soldiers would make 
targets of great pictures, and stable their horses among tri- 
umphs of architecture. But the same Corsican face is so 
plentiful in some parts of Italy at this day, that a more com- 
monplace solution of the coincidence is unavoidable. 

If Pisa be the seventh wonder of the world in right of its 
Tower, it may claim to be, at least, the second or , third in 
right of its beggars. They waylay the unhappy visitor at 
every turn, escort him to every door he enters at, and lie in 
wait for him, with strong reinforcements, at every door by 
which they know he must come out. The grating of the por- 
tal on its hinges is the signal for a general shout, and the mo- 
ment he appears, he is hemmed in, and fallen on, by heaps of 
rags and personal distortions. The beggars seem to embody 
all the trade and enterprise of Pisa. Nothing else is stirring, 
but warm air. Going through the streets, the fronts of the 
sleepy houses look like backs. They are all so still and 
quiet, and unlike houses with people in them, that the greater 
part of the city has the appearance of a city at daybreak, or 
during a general siesta of the population. Or it is yet more 
like those backgrounds of houses in common prints, or old 
engravings, where windows and doors are squarely indicated, 
and one figure (a beggar of course) is seen walking off by it- 
self into illimitable perspective. 

Not so Leghorn (made illustrious by Smollett's grave), 
which is thriving, business-like, matter-of-fact place, where 
idleness is shouldered out of the way by commerce. The 
regulations observed there, in reference to trade and mer- 
chants, are very liberal and free ■ and the town, of course, 
benefits by them. Leghorn has a bad name in connection 
with stabbers, and with some justice it must be allowed ; for, 
not many years ago, there was an assassination club there, the 
members of which bore no ill-will to anybody in particular, but 
stabbed people (quite strangers to them) in the streets at night, 
for the pleasure and excitement of the recreation. I think the 
president of this amiable society, was a shoemaker. He was 
taken, however, and the club was broken up. It would, 
probably, have disappeared in the natural course of events 



PICTURES, FROM. I'fALY. ~ oC) 

before the railroad between Leghorn and Pisa, which is a 
good one, and has already begun to astonish Italy with a pre- 
cedent of punctuality, order, plain dealing, and improvement 
— the most dangerous and heretical astonisher of all. There 
must have been a slight sensation, as of earthquake, surely, 
in the Vatican, when the first Italian railroad was thrown 
ODen. 

Returning to Pisa, and hiring a good-tempered Vetturinc, 
and his four horses, to take us on to Rome, we travelled through 
pleasant Tuscan villages and cheerful scenery all day. The 
road-side crosses in this part of Italy are numerous and curious. 
There is seldom a figure on the cross, though there is some- 
times a face; but they are remarkable for being garnished 
with little models in wood, of every possible object that can 
be connected with the Saviour's death. The cock that crowed 
when Peter had denied his Master thrice, is usually perched 
on the tip-top ; and an ornithological phenomenon he gener- 
ally is. Under him. is the inscription. Then, hung on to the 
cross-beam, are the spear, the reed with the sponge of vin- 
egar and water at the end, the coat without seam for which the 
soldiers cast lots, the dice-box with which they threw for it, 
the hammer that drove in the nails, the pincers that pulled 
them out, the ladder Which was set against the cross, the 
crown of thorns, the instrument of flagellation, the lanthorn 
with which Mary went to the tomb (I suppose), and the sword 
with which Peter smote the servant of the high priest, — a per- 
fect toy-shop of little objects, repeated at every four or five 
miles, all along the highway. 

On the evening of the second day from Pisa, we reached 
the beautiful old city of Siena. There was what they called 
a Carnival, in progress ; but, as its secret lay in a score or 
two of melancholy people walking up and down the principal 
street in common toy-shop masks, and being more melan- 
choly, if possible, than the same sort of people in England, I 
say no more of it. We went off, betimes next morning, to see 
the Cathedral, which is wonderfully picturesque inside and 
out, especially the latter — also the market-place, or great Pi- 
azza, which is a large square, with a great broken-nosed foun- 
tain in it : some quaint Gothic houses : and a high square 
brick tower ; outside the top of which — a curious feature in 
such views in Italy — hangs an enormous bell. It is like a bit 
of Venice, without the water. There are some curious old 
Palazzi in the town, which is very ancient ; and without hav 



- 1 JVC 7 UKES Fli th tf J PAL Y 

ing (for me) the interest of Verona, or Genoa- it is vei*jj 
dreamy and fantastic, and most interesting. 

We went on again, as soon as we had seen these things, 
and going over a rather bleak country (there had been noth- 
ing but vines until now : mere walking-sticks at that season 
of the year), stopped, as usual, between one and two hours in 
the middle of the day, to rest the horses ; that being a part 
of every Vetturino contract. We then went on again, through 
a region gradually becoming bleaker and wilder, until it be- 
came as bare and desolate as any Scottish moors. Soon after 
dark, we halted for the night,, at the osteria of La Scala : a 
perfectly lone house, where the family were sitting round a 
great fire in the kitchen,, raised on a stone platform three or 
four feet high, and big enough for the roasting of an ox. On 
'he upper, and only other floor of this hotel, there was a great 
, irild rambling sala, with one very little window in a by-corner, 
and four black doors opening into four black bedrooms in va- 
rious directions. To say nothing of another large jplack door, 
opening into another large black sala, with the staircase com- 
ing abruptly through a kind of trap-door in the floor, and the 
i afters of the roof looming above : a suspicious little press 
skulking in one obscure corner ; and all the knives in the 
house lying about in various directions. The fire-place was 
\\1 the purest Italian architecture, so that it was perfectly im- 
possible to see it for the smoke. The waitress was like a 
dramatic brigand's wife, and wore the same style of dress 
upon her head. The dogs barked like mad • the echoes re- 
lumed the compliments bestowed upon them; there was not 
another house within twelve miles ; and things had a dreary, 
and rather a cut-throat, appearance. 

They were not improved by rumors of robbers having 
come out, strong and boldly, within a few nights ; and of their 
having stopped the mail very near that place. They were 
known to have waylaid some travellers not long before, on 
Mount Vesuvius itself, and were the talk at all the roadside 
inns. As they were no business of ours, however (for we had 
very little with us to lose), we made ourselves merry on the 
subject, and were very soon as comfortable as need be. We 
had the usual dinner in this solitary house ; and. a very good 
dinner it is, when you are used . to it. There is something 
with a vegetable or some rice in it, which is a sort of short- 
hand or arbitraiy character for soup, and which tastes very 
well, when you have flavored it with plenty of grated cheese, 



PICTURES FROM ITAL K 5 r T 

lots of salt, and abundance of pepper. There is the half fowl 
of which this soup has been made. There is a stewed pigeon. 
with the gizzards and livers of himself and other birds stuck 
all round him. There is a bit of roast beef, the size of a 
small French roll. ' There are a scrap of Parmesan cheese, 
and five little withered apples, all huddled together on a small 
plate, and crowding one upon the other, as if each were try- 
ing to save itself from the chance of being eaten. Then there 
is coffee ; and then there is bed. You don't mind brick 
floors ; you don't mind yawning doors, nor banging windows ; 
you don't mind your own horses being stabled under the bed ; 
and so close, that every time a horse coughs or sneezes, he 
wakes you. If you are good-humored to the people about 
you, and speak pleasantly, and look cheerful, take my word 
for it you may be well entertained in the very worst Italian 
Inn, and always in the most obliging manner, and may go 
from one end of the country to the other (despite all stories 
to the contrary) without any great trial of your patience any- 
where. Especially, when you get such wine in flasks, as the 
Orvieto, and the Monte Pulciano. 

It was a bad morning when we left this place ; and we 
went, for twelve miles, over a country as barren, as stony, and 
as wild, as Cornwall in England, until we came to Radicofani, 
where there is a ghostly, goblin inn : once a hunting-seat, be- 
longing to the Dukes of Tuscany. It is full of such rambling 
corridors, and gaunt rooms, that all the murdering and phan- 
tom tales that ever were written might have originated in that 
one house. There are some horrible old Palazzi in Genoa : 
one in particular, not unlike it, outside : but there is a wind- 
ing, creaking, wormy, rustling, door-opening, foot-on-staircase- 
falling character about this Radicofani Hotel, such as I never 
saw, anywhere else. The town, such as it is, hangs on a hill- 
side above the house, and in front of it. The inhabitants are 
all beggars ; and as soon as they see a carriage coming, they 
swoop down upon it, like so many birds of prey. 

When we got on the mountain pass, which lies beyond this 
place, the wind (as they had forewarned us at the inn) was so 
terrific, that we were obliged to take my other half out of the 
carriage, lest she should be blown over, carriage and all, and 
to hang to it, on the windy side (as well as we could for laugh- 
ing), to prevent its going, Heaven knows where. For mere 
force of wind, this land-storm might have competed w T ith an 
Atlantic gale, and had a reasonable chance of coming off vie 



5 j 2 PIC TURES FK OM 1 TA L Y. 

torious. The blast came sweeping down great gullies In a 
range of mountains on the right : so that we looked with posi- 
tive awe at a great morass on the left, and saw that there was 
not a bush or twig to hold by. It seemed as if, once blowr, 
from our feet, we must be swept out to sea, or away into 
space. There was snow, and hail, and rain, and lightning 
and thunder ; and there were rolling mists, travelling with in- 
credible velocity. It was dark, awful, and solitary to the last 
degree ; there were mountains above mountains, veiled in 
angry clouds ; and there was such a wrathful, rapid, violent, 
tumultuous hurry, everywhere, as rendered the scene un- 
speakably exciting and grand. 

It was a relief to get out of it, notwithstanding; and to 
cross even the dismal dirty Papal Frontier. After passing 
through two little towns ; in one of which, Acquapendente, 
there was also a " Carnival " in progress : consisting of one 
man dressed and masked as a woman, and one woman dressed 
and masked as a man, walking ankle-deep, through the muddy 
streets, in a very melancholy manner: we came, at dusk, 
within sight of the Lake of Bolsena, on whose bank there is a 
little town of the same name, much celebrated for malaria. 
With the exception of this poor place, there is not a cottage 
on the banks of the lake, or near it (for nobody dare sleep 
there) ; not a boat upon its waters : not a stick or stake to 
break the dismal monotony of seven-and-twenty watery miles. 
We were late in getting in, the roads being very bad from 
heavy rains ; and, after dark, the dulness of the scene wa $ 
quite intolerable. 

We entered on a very different, and a finer scene of deso- 
lation, next night, at sunset. We had passed through Mon- 
tefiaschone (famous for its wine) and Viterbo (for its foun- 
tains) : and after climbing up a long hill of eight or ten miles'" 
extent, came suddenly upon the margin of a solitary lake : in 
one part very beautiful, with a luxuriant wood ; in another, 
very barren, and shut in by bleak volcanic hills. Where this 
lake flows, there stood, of old, a city. It was swallowed up 
one day ; and in its stead, this water rose. There are ancient 
traditions (common to many parts of the world) of the ruined 
city having been seen below, when the water was clear ; but 
however that may be, from this spot of earth it vanished. 
The ground came bubbling up above it ; and the water too ; 
and here they stand, like ghosts on whom the other world 
closed suddenly, and who have no means of getting back 



PICTURES FROM ITALY 



5*3 



again. They seem to be waiting the course of ages, for the 
next earthquake in that place ; when they will plunge below 
the ground, at its first yawning, and be seen no more. The 
unhappy city below, is not more lost and dreary, than these 
fire-charred hills and the stagnant water, above. The red 
sun looked strangely on them, as with the knowledge that 
they were made for caverns and darkness ; and the melan- 
choly water oozed and sucked the mud, and crept quietly 
among the marshy grass and reeds, as if the overthrow of all 
the ancient towers and house-tops, and the death of all the 
ancient people born and bred there, were yet heavy on its 
conscience. 

A short ride from this lake, brought us to Ronciglione ; a 
little town like a large pig-sty, where we passed the night 
Next morning at seven o'clock, Ave started for Rome. 

As soon as we were out of the pig-sty, we entered on the 
Campagna Romana ; an undulating flat (as you know), where 
few people can live ; and where, for miles and miles, there if> 
nothing to relieve the terrible monotony and gloom. Of all 
kinds of country that could, by possibility, lie outside tin*. 
gates of Rome, this is the aptest and fittest burial-ground for 
the. Dead City. So sad, so quiet, so sullen ; so secret in its 
covering up of great masses of ruin, and hiding them; so likfc 
the waste places into which the men possessed with devils 
used to go and howl, and rend themselves, in the old days of. 
Jerusalem. .We had to traverse thirty miles of this Campagna ; 
and for two-ancl-twenty we went on and on, seeing nothing 
but now and then a lonely house, or a villanous-looking 
shepherd : with matted hair all over his face, and himself 
wrapped to the chin in a frowsy brown mantle, tending his 
sheep. At the end of that distance, we stopped to refresh the. 
horses, and to get some lunch, in a common malaria-shaken 
despondent little public-house, whose every inch of wall and 
beam, inside, was (according to custom) painted and deco- 
rated in a way so miserable that every room looked like the 
wrong side of another room, and with its wretched imitation 
of drapery, and lop-sided little daubs of lyres, seemed to have 
been plundered from behind the scenes of some travelling 
circus. 

When we were fairly going off again, we began, in a perfect 
fever, to strain our eyes for Rome ; and when, after another 
mile or two, the Eternal City appeared, at length, in- the dis- 
tance ; it looked like — I am half afraid to write the word— « 

33 



5 J 4 



PICTURES FROM ITALY 



like LONDON ! ! ! There it lay, under a thick cloud., with 
innumerable towers, and steeples, and roofs of houses, rising 
up into the sky, and high above them all, one Dome. I 
swear, that keenly as I felt the seeming absurdity of the com- 
parison, it was so like London, at that distance, that if you 
could have shown it me, in a glass, I should have taken it for 
nothing else. 



ROME. 



We entered the Eternal City, at about four o'clock in the 
afternoon, on the thirtieth of January, by the Porta del Po- 
polo, and came immediately — it was a dark, muddy day, and 
there had been heavy rain — on the skirts of the Carnival. 
We did not, then, know that we were only looking at the fag 
end of the masks, who were driving slowly round and round 
the Piazza until they could find a promising opportunity for 
falling into the stream of carriages, and getting, in good time, 
into the thick of the festivity ; and coming among them so ab- 
ruptly, all travel-stained and weary, was not coming very well 
prepared to enjoy the scene. 

We had crossed the Tiber by the Ponte Molle two or three 
miles before. It had looked as yellow as it ought to look, 
and hurrying on between its worn-away and miry banks, had 
a promising aspect of desolation and ruin. The masquerade 
dresses on the fringe of the Carnival, did great violence to 
this promise. There were no great ruins, no solemn tokens 
of antiquity, to be seen ; — they all lie on the other side of the 
city. There seemed to be long streets of common-place 
shops and houses, such as are to be found in any European 
town ; there were busy people, equipages, ordinary walkers to 
and fro ; a multitude of chattering strangers. It was no more 
my Rome ; the Rome of anybody's fancy, man or boy ; de- 
graded and fallen and lying asleep in the sun among a heap of 
ruins : than the Place de la Concorde in Paris is. A cloudy 
sky, a dull cold rain, and muddy streets, I was prepared for, 
but not for this : and I confess to having gone to bed, that 
night, in a very indifferent humor, and with a very considerable 
quenched enthusiasm. 



PIC Tl TR'ES FR OM JTAL Y. $ i 5 

Immediately on going out next day, we hurried off to St. 
Peter's. It looked immense in the distance, but distinctly 
and decidedly small, by comparison, on a near approach. 
The beauty of the Piazza, on which it stands, with its clusters 
of exquisite columns, and its gushing fountains — so fresh, so 
broad and free, and beautiful — nothing can exaggerate. The 
first burst of the interior, in all its expansive majesty and 
glory : and, most of all, the looking up into the Dome : is a 
sensation never to be forgotten. But, there were preparations 
for a Festa ; the pillars of stately marble were swathed in 
some impertinent frippery of red and yellow ; the altar, and 
entrance to the subterranean chapel : which is before it : in 
the centre of the church : were like a goldsmith's shop, or one 
of the opening scenes in a very lavish pantomine. And though 
I had as high a sense of the beauty of the building (I hope) 
as it is possible to entertain, I felt no very strong emotion. 
I have been infinitely more affected in many English cathe- 
drals when the organ has been playing, and in many English 
country churches when the congregation have been singing. I 
had a much greater sense of mystery and wonder, in the Ca- 
thedral of San Mark at Venice. 

When we came out of the church again (we stood nearly 
sin hour staring up into the dome : and would not have " gone 
over " the Cathedral then, for any money), we said to the 
coachman, " Go to the Coliseum." In a quarter of an hour 
or so, he stopped at the gate, and we went in. 

It is no fiction, but plain, sober, honest Truth, to say : so 
suggestive and distinct is it at this hour : that, for a moment 
— actually in passing in — they who will, may have the whole 
great pile before them, as it used to be, with thousands of 
eager faces staring down into the arena, and such a whirl of 
strife, and blood, and dust going on there, as no language can 
describe. Its solitude, its awful beauty, and its utter desola- 
tion, strike upon the stranger the next moment, like a softened 
sorrow ; and never in his life, perhaps, will he be so moved 
and overcome by any sight, not immediately connected with 
his own affections and afflictions. 

To see it crumbling" there, an inch a year; its walls and 
arches overgrown with green ; its corridors open to the day ; 
the long grass growing in its porches ; young trees of yester- 
day, springing up on its ragged parapets, and bearing fruit : 
chance produce of the seeds dropped there by the birds who 
build their nests within its chinks and crannies ; to see its 



qjfj PICTURES FROM /7'ALY. 

Pit of Fight filled up with earth, and the peaceful Cross 
planted in the centre • to climb into its upper halls, and look 
down on ruin, ruin, ruin, all about it ; the triumphal arches of 
Constantine, Septimus Severus, and Titus ; the Roman 
Forum ; the Palace of the Caesars ; the temples of the old 
religion, fallen down and gone ; is to see the ghost of old 
Rome, wicked wonderful old city, haunting the very ground 
on which its people trod. It is the most impressive, the most 
stately, the most solemn, grand, majestic, mournful sight, con- 
ceivable. Never, in its bloodiest crime, can the sight of the 
gigantic Coliseum, full and running over with the lustiest life, 
have moved one heart, as it must move all who look upon it 
now, a ruin. God be thanked : a ruin. 

As it tops the other ruins : standing there, a mountain 
among graves : so do its ancient influences outlive all other 
remnants of the old mythology and old butchery of Rome, in 
the nature of the fierce and cruel Roman people. The Italian 
face changes as the visitor approaches the city ; its beauty 
becomes devilish ; and there is scarcely one countenance in a 
hundred, among the common people in the streets, that would 
not be at home and happy in a renovated Coliseum to-morrow. 

Here was Rome indeed at last : and such a Rome as no 
one can imagine in its full and awful grandeur ! We wandered 
out upon the Appian Wat 7 , and then went on, through miles 
of ruined tombs and broken walls, with here and there a 
desolate and uninhabited house ; past the Circus of Romulus, 
where the course of the chariots, the stations of the judges, 
competitors, and spectators, are yet as plainly to be seen af 
in old time : past the tomb of Cecilia Metella : past all in- 
closure, hedge, or stake, wall or fence : away upon the open 
Campagna, where on that side of Rome, nothing is to be 
beheld but Ruin. Except where the distant Apennines 
bound the view upon the left, the whole wide prospect is one 
field of ruin, Broken aqueducts, left in the most picturesque 
and beautiful clusters of arches ; broken temples ; broken 
tombs. A desert of decay, sombre and desolate bevontl all 
expression ; and with a history in every stone that strews the 
ground. 

On Sunday, the Pope assisted in the performance of High 
Mass at St. Peter's. The effect of the Cathedral on my mind, 
on that second visit, was exactly what it was at first, and what 
it remains after many visits. It is not religiously impressive 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y ^ 1 7 

or affecting. It is an immense edifice, with no one point for 
the mind to rest upon ; and it tires itself with wandering 
roving! and round. The very purpose of the place, is not ex- 
pressed in anything you see there, unless you examine its 
details — and all examination of details is incompatible with 
the place itself. It might be a Pantheon, or a Senate House, 
or a great architectural trophy, having no other object than 
an architectural triumph. There is a black statue of St. Peter, 
to be sure, under a red canopy ; which is larger than life, and 
which is constantly having its great toe kissed by good Catho- 
lics. You cannot help seeing that : it is so very prominent 
and popular. But it does not heighten the effect of the temple, 
as a work of art ; and it is not expressive — to me at least — of 
its high purpose. 

A large space behind the altar, was fitted up with boxes, 
shaped like those at the Italian Opera in England, but in 
their decoration much more gaudy. In the centre gf the kind 
of theatre thus railed off, was a canopied dais with the Pope's 
chair upon it. The pavement was covered with a carpet of 
the brightest green ; and what with this green, and the intoler- 
able reds and crimsons, and gold borders of the hangings, 
the whole concern looked like a stupendous Bonbon. On 
either side of the altar, was a large box for lady strangers. 
These were filled with ladies in black dresses and black veils. 
The gentlemen of the Pope's guard, in red coats, leather 
breeches, and jackboots, guarded all this reserved space, with 
drawn swords that were very flashy in every sense : and from 
the altar all down the nave, a broad lane was kept clear by the 
Pope's Swiss guard, who wear a quaint striped surcoat, and 
striped tight legs, and carry halberds like those which are 
usually shouldered by those theatrical supernumeraries, who 
never can get off the stage fast enough, and who may be 
generally observed to linger in the enemy's camp after the 
open country, held by the opposite forces, has been split up 
the middle by a convulsion of Nature. 

I got upon the border of the green carpet, in company 
with a great many other gentlemen, attired in black (no other 
passport is necessary), and stood there at my ease, during the 
performance of Mass. The singers were in a crib of wirework 
(like a large meat-safe or bird-cage) in one corner \ and sang 
most atrociously. All about the green carpet, there was a 
slowly moving crowd of people : talking to each other : star- 
ing at the Pope through eye-glasses : defrauding one another, 



5 x8 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

in moments of partial curiosity, out of precarious seats on the 
bases of pillars : and grinning hideously at the ladies. Dotted 
here and there, were little knots of friars (Francescani, or 
Cappuccfni, in their coarse brown dresses and peaked hoods) 
making a strange contrast to the gaudy ecclesiastics of higher 
degree, and having their humility gratified to the utmost, by 
being shouldered about, and elbowed right and left, on all 
sides. Some of these had muddy sandals and umbrellas, and 
stained garments ; having trudged in from the country. The 
faces of the greater part were as coarse and heavy as their 
dress ; their dogged, stupid, monotonous stare at all the glory 
and splendor, having something in it, half miserable, and half 
ridiculous. 

Upon the green carpet itself, and gathered round the altar, 
was a perfect army of cardinals and priests, in red, gold, pur- 
ple, violet, white, and fine linen. Stragglers from these, went 
to and fro among the crowd, conversing, two and two, or giv- 
ing and receiving introductions, and exchanging salutations ; 
other functionaries in black gowns, and other functionaries in 
^ourt-dresses, were similarly engaged. In the midst of all 
' iiese, and stealthy Jesuits creeping in and out, and the ex- 
treme restlessness of the Youth of England, who were perpet- 
ually wandering about, some few steady persons in black 
cassocks, who had knelt down with their faces to the wall, and 
were poring over their missals, became, unintentionally, a sort 
of human man-traps, and with their own devout legs, tripped 
up other people's by the dozen. 

There was a great pile of candles lying down on the floor 
near me, which a very old man in a rusty black gown with an 
open work tippet, like a summer ornament for a fireplace in 
tissue-paper, made himself very busy in dispensing to all the 
ecclesiastics : one a-piece. They loitered about with these 
for some time, under their arms like walking-sticks, or in their 
hands like truncheons. At a certain period of the ceremony, 
however, each carried his canrJle up to the Pope, laid it across 
his two knees to be blessed, took it back again, and filed off. 
This was done in a very attenuated procession, as you may 
suppose, and occupied a long time. Not because it takes 
long to bless a candle through and through, but because there 
were so many candles to be blessed. At last they were all 
blessed ; and then they were all lighted ; and then the Pope 
was taken up, chair and all, and carried round the church. 

I must say, that I never saw anything, out of November, 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



5 X 9 



so like the popular English commemoration of the fifth of that 
month. A bundle of matches and a lantern, would have 
made it perfect. Nor did the Pope, himself, at all mar the 
resemblance, though he has a pleasant and venerable face ; 
for, as this part of the ceremony makes him giddy and sick 7 
he shuts his eyes when it is performed : and having his eyes 
shut and a great mitre on his head, and his head itself wag- 
ging to and fro as they shook him in carrying, he looked as if 
his mask were going to tumble off. The two immense fans 
which are always borne, one on either side of him, accom- 
panied him, of course, on this occasion. As they carried him 
along he blessed the people with the mystic sign; and as he 
passed them, they kneeled down. When he had made the 
round of the church, he was brought back again, and if I am 
not mistaken, this performance was repeated, in the whole 
three times. There was, certainly, nothing solemn or effective 
in it ; and certainly very much that was droll and tawdry. 
But this remark applies to the whole ceremony, except the 
raising of the Host, when every man in the guard dropped on 
one knee instantly, and dashed his naked sword on the ground ; 
which had a fine effect. 

The next time I saw the cathedral, was, some two or three 
weeks afterwards, when I climbed up into the ball ; and then, 
the hangings being taken down, and the carpet taken up, but 
all the framework left, the remnants of these decorations 
looked like an exploded cracker.* 

The Friday and Saturday having been solemn Festal days, 
and Sunday being always a dies non in carnival proceedings, we 
had looked forward, with some impatience and curiosity, to the 
beginning of the new week : Monday and Tuesday being the 
two last and best days of the Carnival. 

On the Monday afternoon at one or two o'clock, there be- 
gan to be a great rattling of carriages into the court-yard of 
the hotel ; a hurrying to and fro of all the servants in it ; and, 
now and then, a swift shooting across some doorway or bal- 
cony, of a straggling stranger in a fancy dress : not yet suffi- 
ciently well used to the same, to wear it with confidence, and 
defy public opinion. All the carriages were open, and had 
the linings carefully covered with white cotton or calico, to 
prevent their proper decorations from being spoiled by the 
incessant pelting of sugar-plums ; and people were packing 
and cramming into every vehicle as it waited for its occupants. 



5 2 o PIC TURES FR OM IT A L Y. 

enormous sacks and baskets full of these confetti, together 
with such heaps of flowers, tied up in little nosegays, that some 
carriages were not only brimful of flowers, but literally run- 
ning over : scattering, at every shake and jerk of the springs, 
some of their abundance on the ground. Not to be behind- 
hand in these essential particulars, we caused two very respect- 
able sacks of sugar-plums (each about three feet high) and a 
large clothes-basket full of flowers to be conveyed into Our 
hired barouche, with all speed. And from our place of ob- 
servation, In one of the upper balconies of the hotel, we con- 
templated these arrangements with the liveliest satisfaction. 
The carriages now beginning to take up their company, and 
move away, we got into ours, and drove off too, armed with 
little wire masks for our faces ; the sugar-plums, like FalstafFs 
adulterated sack, having lime in their composition. 

The Corso is a street a mile long ; a street of shops, and 
palaces, and private houses, sometimes opening into a broad 
piazza. There are verandas and balconies, of all shapes and 
sizes, to almost every house — not on one story alone, but often 
to one room or another on every story — put there in general 
with so little order or regularity, that if, year after year, and 
season after season, it had rained balconies, hailed balconies, 
snowed balconies, blown balconies, they could scarcely have 
come into existence in a more disorderly manner. 

This is the great fountain-head and focus of the Carnival. 
But all the streets in which the Carnival is held, being vigi- 
lantly kept by dragoons, it is necessary for carriages, in the 
first instance, to pass, in line, down another thoroughfare, and 
so come into the Corso at the end remote from the Piazza del 
Popolo ; which is one of its terminations. Accordingly, we 
fell into the string of coaches, and, for some time, jogged on 
quietly enough ; now crawling on at a very slow walk ; now 
trotting half-a-dozen yards ; now backing fifty ; and now stop- 
ping altogether ; as the pressure in front obliged us. If any 
impetuous carriage dashed out of the rank and clattered for- 
ward, with the wild idea of getting on faster, it was suddenly 
met, or overtaken, by a trooper on horseback, who, deaf as 
his own drawn sword to all remonstrances, immediately escort- 
ed it back to the very end of the row, and made it a dim speck 
in the remotest perspective. Occasionally, we interchanged 
a volley of confetti with the carriage next in front, or the car 
riage next behind 5 but as yet, this capturing of stray and 
errant coaches bv the military, was the chief amusement. 



PIC TL 'RES FR Oi M ITALY. s 2 J 

Presently, we came into a narrow street, where, besides one 
line of carriages going, there was another line of carriages 
returning. Here the sugar-plums and the nosegays began to 
fly about, pretty smartly ; and I was fortunate enough to 
observe one gentleman attired as a Greek warrior, catch a 
light-whiskered brigand on the nose (he was in the very act of 
tossing up a bouquet to a young lady in a first -floor window) 
with a precision that was much applauded by the bystanders. 
As this victorious Greek was exchanging a facetious remark 
with a stout gentleman in a door-way — one-half black and one- 
half white, as if he had been peeled up the middle — who had 
offered him his congratulations on this achievement, he re- 
ceived on orange from a house-top, full on his left ear, and was 
much surprised, not to say discomfited. Especially, as he 
was standing up at the time ; and in consequence of the car- 
riage moving on suddenly, at the same moment, staggered 
ignominiously, and buried himself among his flowers. 

Some quarter of an hour of this sort of progress, brought 
us to the Corso ; and any thing so gay, so bright, and lively as 
the whole scene there, it would be difficult to imagine. From 
all the innumerable balconies : from the remotest and highest, 
no less than from the lowest and nearest : hangings of bright 
red, bright green, bright blue, white and gold, were fluttering 
in the brilliant sunlight. From windows, and from parapets, 
and tops of houses, streamers of the richest colors, and dra- 
peries of the gaudiest and most sparkling hues, were floating 
out upon the street. The buildings seemed to have been liter- 
ally turned inside out, and to have all their gayety towards the 
highway. Shop-fronts were taken down, and the windows 
filled with company, like boxes at a shining theatre ; doors 
were carried off their hinges, and long tapestried groves, hung 
with garlands of flowers and evergreens, displayed within; 
builders' scaffoldings were gorgeous temples, radiant in silver, - 
gold, and crimson ; and in every nook and corner, from the 
pavement to the chimney-tops, where women's eyes coula: 
glisten, there they danced, and laughed, and sparkled, like the 
light in water. Every sort of bewitching madness of dress 
was there. Little preposterous scarlet jackets ; quaint old 
stomachers, more wicked than the smartest bodices ; Polish 
pelisses, strained and tight as ripe gooseberries ; tiny Greek . 
caps, all awry, and clinging to the dark hair, Heaven knows 
how ; every wild, quaint, bold, shy, pettish, madcap fancy had 
its illustration in a dress ; and every fancy was as dead forgot- 



5 2 2 iVC TURES FROM ITA L Y. 

ten by its owner, in the tumult of merriment, as if the three old 
aqueducts that still remain entire had brought Lethe into 
.Rome, upon their sturdy arches, that morning. 

The carriages were now three abreast • in broader places 
four ; often stationary for a long time together ; always one 
close mass of variegated brightness ; showing, the whole street- 
ful, through the storm of flowers, like flowers of a larger growth 
themselves. In some, the horses were richly caparisoned 
in magnificent trappings ; in others they were decked from 
head to tail, with flowing ribbons. Some were driven by 
coachmen with enormous double faces : one face leering at 
the horses': the other cocking its extraordinary eyes into the 
carriage : and both rattling again, under the hail of sugar- 
plums. Other drivers were attired as women, wearing long 
ringlets and no bonnets, and looking more ridiculous in any 
real difficulty with the horses (of which, in such a concourse, 
there were a great many) than tongue can tell, or pen de- 
scribe. Instead of sitting in the carriages, upon the seats, the 
handsome Roman women, to see and to be seen the better, 
sit in the heads of the barouches, at this time of general license, 
with their feet upon the cushions — and oh the flowing skirts 
and dainty waists, the blessed shapes and laughing faces, the 
free, good-humored, gallant figures that they make ! There 
were great vans, too, full of handsome girls — thirty, or more 
together, perhaps — and the broadsides that were poured into, 
and poured out of, these fairy fire-shops, splashed the air with 
flowers and bon-bons for ten minutes at a time. Carriages, 
delayed long in one place, would begin a deliberate engage- 
ment with other carriages, or with people at the lower win- 
dows ; and the spectators at some upper balcony or window, 
joining in the fray, and attacking both parties, would empty 
down great bags of confetti that descended like a cloud, and 
in an instant made them white as millers. Still, carriages on 
^carriages, dresses on dresses, colors on colors, crowds upon 
crowds, without end.. Men and boys clinging to the wheels 
of coaches, and holding on behind, and following in their 
wake, and diving in among the horses' feet to pick up scat- 
tered flowers to sell again ; maskers on foot (the drollest gen- 
erally) in fantastic exaggerations of court-dresses, surveying 
the throng through enormous eye-glasses, and always trans- 
ported with an ecstasy of love, on the discovery of any partic- 
ularly old lady at a window ; long strings of Policinelli, laying 
about them with blown bladders at the ends of sticks : a 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 5 2 3 

wagonful of madmen, screaming and tearing to the life ; a 
coachful of grave mamelukes, with their horse-tail standard 
set up in the midst ; a party of gipsy-women engaged in ter- 
rific conflict with a shipful of sailors; a man-monkey on a 
pole, surrounded by strange animals with pigs' faces, and lions' 
tails, carried under their arms, or worn gracefully over their 
shoulders ; carriages on carriages, dresses on dresses, colors 
on colors, crowds upon crowds, without end. Not many ac- 
tual characters sustained, or represented, perhaps, consider- 
ing the number dressed, but the main pleasure of the scene 
Consisting in its entire good temper ; in its bright, and in- 
finite, and flashing variety; and in its entire abandonment 
to the mad humor of the time — an abandonment so perfect, 
so contagious, so irresistible, that the steadiest foreigner 
fights up to his middle in flowers and sugar-plums, like the 
wildest Roman of them all, and thinks of nothing else till 
half-past four o'clock, when he is suddenly reminded (to his; 
great regret) that this is not the whole business of his exist 
ence t by hearing the trumpets sound, and seeing the dragoonr, 
begin to clear the street. 

How it ever is cleared for the race that takes place at five , 
or how the horses ever go through the race, without going 
over the people, is more than I can say. But the carriages 
get out into the by-streets, or up into the Piazza del Popolo, 
and some people sit in temporary galleries in the latter place, 
and tens of thousands line the Corso on both sides, when th<> 
horses are brought out into the Piazza — to the foot of that 
same column which, for centuries, looked down upon the 
games and chariot-races in the Circus Maximus. 

At a given signal they are started off. Down the live lane, 
the whole length of the Corso, they fly like the wind : rider- 
less, as all the world knows : with shining ornaments upon 
their backs, and twisted in their plaited manes : and with 
heavy little balls stuck full of spikes, dangling at their sides, 
to goad them on. The jingling of these trappings, and the 
rattling of their hoofs upon the hard stones ; the dash and 
fury of their speed along the echoing street ; nay, the very 
cannon that are fired — these noises are nothing to the roaring 
of the multitude : their shouts - the clapping of their hands. 
But it is soon over — almost instantaneously. More cannon 
shake the town. The horses have plunged into the carpets 
put across the street to stop them ; the goal is reached ; the 
prizes are won (they are given, in part, by the poor Jewsj as a 



524 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

compromise for not running foot-races themselves) ; and there 
is an end to that day's sport. 

But if the scene be bright, and gay, and crowded, on the 
last day but one, it attains, on the concluding day, to such a 
height of glittering color, swarming life, and frolicsome up- 
roar, that the bare recollection of it makes me giddy at this 
moment. The same diversions, greatly heightened and inten- 
sified in the ardor with which they are pursued, go on until 
the same hour. The race is repeated ; the cannon are fired \ 
the shouting and clapping of hands are renewed ; the cannon 
are fired again ; the race is over ; and the prizes are won. 
But the carriages : ankle-deep with sugar-plums within, and so 
be-flowered and dusty without, as to be hardly recognizable 
for the same vehicles that they were, three hours ago : instead 
of scampering off in all directions, throng into the Corso, 
where they are soon wedged together in a scarcely moving 
mass'. For the diversion of the Moccoletti, the last gay mad- 
ness of the Carnival, is now at hand ; and sellers of little ta- 
pers like what are called Christmas candles in England, are 
shouting lustily on every side, " Moccoli, Moccoli ! Ecco 
Moccoli ! " — a new item in the tumult ; quite abolishing that 
other item of " Ecco Fiori ! Ecco Fior — r — r ! " which has 
been making itself audible, over all the rest, at intervals, the 
whole day through. 

As the bright hangings and dresses are all fading into one 
dull, heavy, uniform color in the decline of the day, lights be- 
gin flashing, here and there : in the windows, on the house- 
tops, in the balconies, in the carriages, in the hands of the 
foot-passengers : little by little : gradually, gradually : more 
and more : until the whole long street is one great glare and 
blaze of fire. Then, everybody present has but one engross- 
ing object ; that is, to extinguish other people's candles, and 
to keep his own alight ; and everybody : man, woman, or 
child, gentleman or lady, prince or peasant, native or foreigner: 
yells and screams, and roars incessantly, as a taunt to the 
subdued, " Senza Moccolo, Senza Moccolo ! " (Without a 
light ! Without a light !) until nothing is heard but a gigan- 
tic chorus of those two words, mingled with peals of laughter, 

The spectacle, at this time, is one of the most extraordr 
nary that can be imagined. Carriages coming slowly by, with 
everybody standing on the seats or on the box, holding up 
their lights at arms' length, for greater safety ; some in paper 
shades ; some with a bunch of undefended little 'tapers, kin- 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



525 



died together ; some with blazing torches ; some with feeble 
little candles ; men on foot, creeping along, among the wheels, 
watching their opportunity, to make a spring at some particular 
light, and dash it out ; other people climbing up into carriages, 
to get hold of them by main force ; others, chasing some un- 
lucky wanderer, round and round his own coach, to blow out 
the light he has begged or stolen somewhere, before he can 
ascend to his own company, and enable them to light their 
extinguished tapers ; others, with their hats off, at a carriage- 
door, humbly beseeching some kind-hearted lady to oblige 
them with a light for a cigar, and when she is in the fulness of 
doubt whether to comply or no, blowing out the candle she is 
guarding so tenderly with her little hand • other people at the 
windows, fishing for candles with lines and hooks, or letting 
down long willow-wands with handkerchiefs at the end, and 
flapping them out, dexterously, when the bearer is at the height 
of his triumph ; others, biding their time in corners, with im- 
mense extinguishers like halberds, and suddenly coming down 
upon glorious torches ; others, gathered round one coach, and 
sticking to it; others, raining oranges and nosegays at an ob- 
durate little lantern, or regularly storming a pyramid of men, 
holding up one man among them, who carries one feeble little 
wick above his head, with which he ' defies them all ! Senza 
Moccolo ! Senza Moccolo ! Beautiful women, standing up 
in coaches, pointing in derision at extinguished lights, and 
clapping their hands, as they pass on, crying, " Senza Moc- 
colo ! Senza Moccolo ! " ; low balconies full of lovely faces 
and gay dresses, struggling with assailants in the streets ; 
some repressing them as they climb up, some bending down, 
some leaning over, some shrinking back — delicate arms and 
bosoms — graceful figures — glowing lights, fluttering dresses, 
Senza Moccolo, Senza Moccolo, Senza Moc-co-lo-o-0-0 ! — 
when in the wildest enthusiasm of the cry, and fullest ecstasy 
of the sport, the Ave Maria rings from the church steeples, 
and the Carnival is over in an instant — put out like a tapen 
with a breath ! 

There was a masquerade at the theatre at night, as dull 
and senseless as a London one, and only remarkable for the 
summary way in which the house was cleared at eleven 
o'clock : which was done by a line of soldiers forming along 
the wall, at the back of the stage, and sweeping the whole 
company out before them, like a broad broom. The game of 
the Moccoletti (the word, in the singular, Moccoletto, is the 
23 



526 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 



diminutive of Moccolo, and means a little lamp or candle- 
snuff) is supposed by some to be a ceremony of burlesque 
mourning for the death of the Carnival : candles being indis- 
pensable to Catholic grief. But whether it be so, or be a 
remnant of the ancient Saturnalia, or an incorporation of 
both, or have its origin in any thing else, I shall always re- 
member it, and the frolic, as a brilliant and most captivating 
sight : no less remarkable for the unbroken good-humor of 
all concerned, down to the very lowest (and among those who 
scaled the carriages, were many of the commonest men and 
boys), than for its innocent vivacity. For, odd as it may 
seem to say so, of a sport so full of thoughtlessness and per- 
sonal display, it is as free from any taint of immodesty as any 
general mingling of the two sexes can possibly be ; and there 
seems to prevail, during its progress, a feeling of general, 
almost childish, simplicity and confidence, which one thinks 
of with a pang, when the Ave Maria has rung it away, for a 
whole year. 

Availing ourselves of a part of the quiet interval between 
the termination of the Carnival and the beginning of the 
Holy Week : when everybody had run away from the one, and 
few people had yet begun to run back again for the other : we 
went conscientiously to work, to see Rome. And, by the 
dint of going out early every morning, and coming back late 
every evening, and laboring hard all day, I believe we made 
acquaintance with every post and pillar in the city, and the 
country round ; and in particular, explored so many churches, 
that I abandoned that part of the enterprise at last, before it 
was half finished, lest I should never, of my own accord,- go 
to church again, as long as I lived. But, I managed, almost 
every day, at one time or other, to get back to the Coliseum, 
and out upon the open Campagna, beyond the Tomb of 
Cecilia Metella. 

We often encountered, in these expeditions, a company of 
English Tourists, with whom I had an ardent, but ungratified 
longing, to establish a speaking acquaintance. They were 
one Mr- Davis, and a small circle of friends. It was impos- 
sible not to know Mrs. Davis's name, from her being always 
in great request among her party, and her party being every- 
where- During the Holy Week, they were in every part of 
every scene of every ceremony. For a fortnight or three 
weeks- before it, thev were in everv tomb, and everv church. 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



527 



and every ruin, and every Picture Gallery ± and I hardly ever 
observed Mrs. Davis to be silent for a moment. Deep under- 
ground, high up in St. Peter's, out on the Campagna, and 
stifling in the Jews' quarter, Mrs. Davis turned up, all the 
same. I don't think she ever saw anything, or ever looked 
at anything ; and she had always lost something out of a straw 
hand-basket, and was trying to find it, with all her might and 
main, among an immense quantity of English halfpence, 
which lay, like sands upon the sea-shore, at the bottom of it 
There was a professional Cicerone always attached to the 
party ( which had been brought over from London, fifteen or 
twenty strong, by contract), and if he so much as looked at 
Mrs. Davis, she invariably cut him short by saying, " There, 
God bless the man, don't worrit me ! I don't understand a 
word you say, and shouldn't if you was to talk till you was 
black in the face ! " Mr. Davis always had a snuff-colored 
great-coat on, and carried a great green umbrella in his hand, 
and had a slow curiosity constantly devouring him, which 
prompted him to do extraordinary things, such as taking the 
covers off urns in tombs, and looking in at the ashes as if 
they were pickles — and tracing out inscriptions with the fer- 
rule of his umbrella, and saying, with intense thoughtfulness, 
" Here's a B you see, and there's a R, and this is the way we 
goes on in ; is it ! " His antiquarian habits occasioned his 
being frequently in the rear of the rest ; and one of the ago- 
nies of Mrs. Davis, and the party in general, was an ever- 
present fear that Davis would be lost. This caused them to 
scream for him, in the strangest places, and at the most im- 
proper seasons. And when he came, slowly emerging out of 
some sepulchre or other, like a peaceful Ghoule, saying, 
"Here I am!" Mrs. Davis invariably replied, "You'll be 
buried alive in a foreign country, Davis, and it's no use trying 
to prevent you ! " 

Mr. and Mrs. Davis, and their party, had,' probably, been 
brought from London in about nine or ten days. Eighteen 
hundred years ago, the Roman legions under Claudius, pro- 
tested against being led into Mr. and Mrs. Davis's country,, 
urging that it lay beyond the limits of the world. 

Among what may be called the Cubs or minor Lions of 
Rome, there was one that amused me mightily. It is always 
to be found there ; and its den is on the great flight of steps 
that lead from the Piazza di Spagna, to the Church of Trinita 
del Monte. In plainer words, these steps are the great place 



S^ 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 



of resort for the artists' f Models," and there they are con- 
stantly waiting to be hired. The first time I went up there, I 
could not conceive why the faces seemed familiar to me ; why 
they appeared to have beset me, for years, in every possible 
variety of action and costume ; and how it came to pass that 
they started up before me, in Rome, in the broad day, like so 
many saddled and bridled nightmares. I soon found that we 
had made acquaintance, and improved it, for several years, 
on the walls of various Exhibition Galleries. There is one 
old gentleman, with long white hair and an immense beard, 
who, to my knowledge, has gone half through the catalogue 
of the Royal Academy. This is the venerable, or patriarchal 
model. He carries a long staff; and every knot and twist 
in that staff I have seen, faithfully delineated, innumerable 
times. There is another man in a blue cloak, who always 
pretends to be asleep in the sun (when there is any), and who, 
I need not say, is always very wide awake, and very attentive to 
the disposition of his legs. This is the dolcefar 1 niente model. 
There is another man in a brown cloak, who leans against a 
wall, with his arms folded in his mantle, and looks out of the 
corners of his eyes : which are just visible beneath his broad 
slouched hat. This is the assassin model. There is another 
man, who constantly looks over his own shoulder, and is 
always going away, but never does. This is the haughty, or 
scornful model. As to Domestic Happiness, and Holy Fam- 
ilies, they should come very cheap, for* there are lumps of 
them, all up the steps • and the cream of the thing, is, that 
they are all the falsest vagabonds in the world, especially 
made up for the purpose, and having no counterparts in Rome 
or any other part of the habitable globe. 

My recent mention of the Carnival, reminds me of its 
being said to be a mock mourning (in the ceremony with 
which it closes), for the gayeties and merry-makings before 
Lent; ; and this again reminds me of the real funerals and 
mourning processions of Rome, which, like those in most 
other parts of Italy, are rendered chiefly remarkable to a For- 
eigner, by the indifference with which the mere clay is univer- 
sally regarded, after life has left it. And this is not from the 
survivors having had time to dissociate the memory of the 
dead from their well-remembered appearance and form on 
earth ; for the interment follows too speedily after death, for 
that : almost always taking place within four-and-twenty hours, 
and sometimes, within twelve. 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 529 

At Rome, there is the same arrangement or Pits in a 
great, bleak, open, dreary space, that I have already described 
as existing in Genoa. When I visited it, at noonday, I saw a 
solitary coffin of plain deal : uncovered by any shroud or pall, 
and so slightly made, that the hoof of any wandering mule 
would have crushed it in ; carelessly tumbled down, all on 
one. side, on the door of one of the pits — and there left, by 
itself, in the wind and sunshine. " How does it come to be 
left here ? " I asked the man who showed me the place. 
" It was brought here half an hour ago, Signore," he said. I 
remembered to have met the procession on its return \ strag- 
gling "away at a good round pace. " When will it be put in 
the pit?" I asked him. "When the cart comes, and it is 
opened to-night," he said. " How much does it cost to be 
brought here in this way, instead of coining in the cart ? " I 
asked him. " Ten scudi," he said (about two pounds, two- 
and-sixpence, English). " The other bodies, for whom noth- 
ing is paid, are taken to the church of the Santa Maria della 
Consolazione," he continued, " and brought here altogether, 
in the cart at night." I stood, a moment, looking at the 
coffin, which had two initial letters scrawled upon the top • 
and turned away, with an expression in my face, I suppose, of 
not much liking its exposure in that manner : for he said, 
shrugging his shoulders with great vivacity, and giving a 
pleasant smile, " But he's dead, Signore, he's dead. Why not ? " 

Among the innumerable churches, there is one I must 
select for separate mention. It is the church of the Ara 
Cceli, supposed to be built on the site of the old Temple of 
Jupiter Feretrius ; and approached, on one side, by a long 
steep flight of steps, which seem incomplete without some 
group of bearded soothsayers on the top. It is remarkable 
for the possession of a miraculous Bambino, or wooden doll," 
representing the Infant Saviour • and I first saw this miracu- 
lous Bambino, in legal phrase, in manner following, that jS 
to say : 

We had strolled into the church one afternoon, and were 
looking down its long vista of gloomy pillars (for all these 
ancient churches built upon the ruins of old temples, are dark 
and sad), when the Brave came running in, with a grin upon 
his face that stretched it from ear to ear, and implored us to 
follow him, without a moment's delay, as they were going to 
show the Bambino to a select party. We accordingly hurried 



t'3o PICTURES FKOJtf / I'ALY. 

off to a sort of chapel, or sacrist), hard by the chief altar, but 
not in the church itself, where the select party, consisting- of 
two or three Catholic gentlemen and ladies (not Italians), 
were already assembled : and where one hollow-cheeked 
young- monk was lighting up divers candles, while another 
was putting on some clerical robes over his coarse brown 
habit. The candles were on a kind of altar, and above it 
were two delectable figures, such as you would sec at any 
English fair, representing the Holy Virgin, and Saint Joseph, 
as I suppose, bending in devotion over a wooden box, or 
coffer ; which was shut. 

The hollow-cheeked monk, number One, having finished 
lighting the candles, went down on his knees, in a corner, 
before this set-piece ; and the monk number Two, having put 
on a pair of highly ornamented and gold-bespattered gloves, 
lifted down the coffer with great reverence, and set it on the 
altar. Then, with many genuflexions, and muttering certain 
prayers, he opened* it, and let down the front, and took off 
sundry coverings of satin and lace from the inside.. The 
ladies had been on their knees from the commencement ; and 
the gentlemen now dropped down devoutly, as he exposed 
to view a little wooden doll, in face very like General Tom 
Thumb, the American Dwarf: gorgeously dressed in satin 
and gold lace, and actually blazing with rich jewels. There 
was scarcely a spot upon its little breast, or neck, or stomach, 
but was sparkling with the costly offerings of the Faithful. 
Presently, he lifted it out of the box, and carrying it round 
among the kneelers, set its face against the forehead of every 
one, and tendered its clumsy foot to them to kiss — a cere- 
mony which they all performed down to a dirty little raga- 
muffin of a boy who had walked in from the street. When 
this was done, he laid it in the box again : and the company, 
rising, drew near, and commended the jew r els in whispers, in 
good time, he replaced the coverings, shut up the box, put it 
back in its place, locked up the whole concern (Holy Family 
and all) behind a pair of folding-doors ; took off his priestly 
vestments : and received the customary "small charge," while 
his companion, by means of an extinguisher fastened to the 
end of a long stick, put out the lighl cue after another. 
The candles being all extinguished, and the money all col- 
lected, they retired, and so did the spectators. 

I met this same Bambino, in the street a short time after- 
wards, going, in great state, to the house of some sick person. 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 53 x 

It is taken to all parts ot Rome for this purpose, constantly ; 
but, I understand that it is not always as successful as could 
be wished ; for, making its appearance at the bedside of weak 
and nervous people in extremity, accompanied by a numerous 
escort, it not unfrequently frightens them to death. It is 
most popular in cases of child-birth, where it has done such 
wonders, that if a lady be longer than usual in getting through 
her difficulties, a messenger is despatched, with all speed, to 
solicit the immediate attendance of the Bambino. It is a very 
valuable property, and much confided in — especially by the 
religious body to whom it belongs. 

I am happy to know that it is not considered immaculate, 
by some who are good Catholics, and who are behind the 
scenes, from what was told me by the near relation of a Priest, 
himself a Catholic, and a gentleman of learning and intelli- 
gence. This Priest made my informant promise that he 
would, on no account, allow the Bambino to be borne into the 
bedroom of a sick lady, in whom they were both interested. 
" For,'" said he, " if they (the monks) trouble her with it, and 
intrude themselves into her room, it will certainly kill her." 
My informant accordingly looked out of the window when it 
came ; and, with many thanks, declined to open the door. 
He endeavored, in another case, of which he had no other 
knowledge than such as he gained as a passer-by at the mo- 
ment, to prevent its being carried into a small unwholesome 
chamber, where a poor girl was dying. But, he strove against 
it unsuccessfully, and she expired while the crowd were press- 
ing round her bed. 

Among the people who drop into St. Peter's at their 
leisure, to kneel on the pavement, and say a quiet prayer, 
there are certain schools and seminaries, priestly and other- • 
wise, that come in, twenty or thirty strong. These boys 
always kneel down in single file, one behind the other, with 
a tall grim master in a black gown, bringing up the rear : like 
a pack of cards arranged to be tumbled down at a touch, 
with a disproportionately large Knave of clubs at the end, 
When they have had a minute or so at the chief altar, they 
scramble up, and filing off to the chapel of the Madonna, or 
the sacrament, flop down again in the same order ; so that if 
anybody did stumble against the master, a general and sudden 
overthrow of the whole line must inevitably ensue. 

The scene in all the churches is the strangest possible. 
The same monotonous, heartless, drowsy chaunting, always 



532 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

going on ; the same dark building, darker from the brightness 
of the street without ; the same lamps dimly burning ; the 
self-same people kneeling here and there; turned towards 
you, from one altar or other, the same priest's back, with 
the same large cross embroidered on it ; however different in 
size, in shape, in wealth, in architecture, this church is from 
that, it is the same thing still. There are the same dirty 
beggars stopping in their muttered prayers to beg ; the same 
miserable cripples exhibiting their deformity at the doors ; the 
same blind men, rattling little pots like kitchen pepper-castors : 
their depositories for alms ; the same preposterous crowns of 
silver stuck upon the painted heads of single saints and 
Virgins in crowded pictures, so that a little figure on a moun- 
tain has a head-dress bigger than the temple in the foreground,, 
or adjacent miles of landscape ; the same favorite shrine or 
figure, smothered with little silver hearts and crosses, and the 
like : the staple trade and show of all the jewellers ; the same 
odd mixture of respect and indecorum, faith and phlegm : 
kneeling on the stones, and spittng ©n them, loudly ; getting 
up from prayers to beg a little, or to pursue some other worldly 
matter : and then kneeling down again, to resume the contrite 
supplication at the point where it was interrupted. In one 
church, a kneeling lady got up from her prayer, for a moment, 
to offer us her card, as a teacher of Music ; and in another, a 
sedate gentleman, with a very thick walking-staff, arose from 
his devotions to belabor his dog, who was growling at another 
dog : and whose yelps and howls resounded through the 
church, as his master quietly relapsed into his former train of 
meditation — keeping his eye upon the dog, at the same time, 
nevertheless. 

Above all, there is always a receptacle, for the contribu- 
tions of the Faithful, in some form or other. Sometimes, it is 
a money-box, set up between the worshipper, and the wooden 
life-size figure of the Redeemer ; sometimes, it is a little chest 
for the maintenance of the Virgin ; sometimes, an appeal on 
behalf of a popular Bambino ; sometimes, a bag at the end of 
a long stick, thrust among the people here and there, and vigi- 
lantly jingled by an active Sacristan ■ but there it always is, 
and, very often, in many shapes in the same church, and doing 
pretty well in all. Nor, is it wanting in the open air — the 
streets and roads — for, often as you are walking along, think- 
ing about anything rather than a tin-canister, that object 
pounces out upon you from a little house by the wayside ; and 



P1CTUR.ES FROM ITALY. r^ 

on its top is painted, " For the Souls in Purgatory ; " an appeal 
which the bearer repeats a great many times, as he rattles it 
before you, much as Punch rattles the cracked bell which his 
sanguine disposition makes an organ of. 

And "this reminds me that some Roman altars of peculiar 
sanctity, bear the inscription, " Every Mass performed at this 
altar frees a soul from Purgatory." I have never been able 
to find out the charge for one of these services, but they 
should needs be expensive. There are several Crosses in 
Rome too, the kissing of which, confers indulgences for vary- 
ing terms. That in the centre of the Coliseum, is worth ? 
hundred days : and people may be seen kissing it from morn- 
ing to night. It is curious that some of these crosses seem. to 
acquire an arbitrary popularity : this very one among them. 
In another part of the Coliseum there is a cross upon a marble 
slab, with the inscription, " Who kisses this cross shall be en 
titled to Two hundred and forty days' indulgence." But I 
saw no one person kiss it, though day after day, I sat in the 
arena, and saw scores upon scores of peasants pass it, on their 
way to kiss the other. 

To single out details from the great dream of Roman 
Churches, would be the wildest occupation in the world. But 
St. Stefano Rotondo, a damp, mildewed vault of an old church 
in the outskirts of Rome, will always struggle uppermost in 
my mind, by reason of the hideous paintings with which its 
walls are covered. These represent the martyrdoms of saints 
and early Christians ; and such a panorama of horror and 
butchery no man could imagine in his sleep, though he were 
to eat a whole pig raw, for supper. Gray-bearded men being 
boiled, fried, grilled, crimped, singed, eaten by wild beasts, 
worried by dogs, buried alive, torn asunder by horses, chopped 
up small with hatchets : women having their breasts torn 
with iron pinchers, their tongues cut out, their ears screwed 
off, their jaws broken, their bodies stretched upon the rack, or 
skinned upon the stake, or crackled up and melted in the fire : 
these are among the mildest subjects. So insisted on, and 
labored at, besides, that every sufferer gives you the same occa- 
sion for wonder as poor old Duncan awoke, in Lady Macbeth, 
when she marvelled at his having so much blood in him. 

There is an upper chamber in the Mamertine prisons, over 
what is said to have been — and very possible may have been 
— the dungeon of St. Peter. This chamber is now fitted up 
as an oratory, dedicated to that saint ; and it lives, as a dis- 



534 PICTURES FROM TTAL Y, 

timet and separate place, in my recollection, too. It is vei y 
small and Low-roofed ; and the dread and gloom of the pon- 
derous, obdurate old prison are on it, as if they had come up 
in a dark mist through the floor. Hanging on the walls, 
among the clustered votive offerings, are objects at once 
strangely in keeping, and strangely at variance, with the place 
■ — rusty daggers, knives, pistols, clubs, divers instruments of 
violence and murder, brought here, fresh from use, and hung 
up to propitiate offended Heaven : as if the blood upon them 
would drain off in consecrated air, and have no voice to cry 
with. It is all so silent and so close, and tomb-like ; and the 
dungeons below are so black and stealth) 7 , and stagnant, and 
naked; that this little dark spot becomes a dream within a 
dream : and in the vision of great churches which come roll- 
jng past me like a sea, it is a small wave by itself, that melts 
into no other wave, and does not flow on with the rest. 

It is an awful thing to think of the enormous caverns that 
are entered from some Roman churches, and undermine the 
city. Many churches have crypts and subterranean chapels 
of great size, which, in the ancient time, were baths, and se- 
cret chambers of temples, and what not : but I do not speak 
of them. Beneath the church* of St. Giovanni and St. Paolo, 
there are the jaws of a terrific range of caverns, hewn out of 
the rock, and said to have another outlet underneath the Coli- 
seum — tremendous darknesses of vast extent, half-buried in the 
earth and unexplorable, where the dull torches, flashed by the 
attendants, glimmer down long ranges of distant vaults branch- 
ing to the right and left, like streets in a city of the dead ; and 
show the cold clamp stealing down the walls, drip-drop, drip-drop 
to join the pools of water that lie here and there, and never saw, 
and never will see, one ray of the sun. Some accounts make 
these the prisons of the wild beasts destined for the amphithe- 
atre :'some the prisons of the condemned gladiators ; some, both. 
But the legend most appalling to the fancy is, that in the up- 
per range (for there are two stories of these caves) the Early 
Christians destined to be eaten at the Coliseum Shows, heard 
the wild beasts, hungry for them, roaring clown below ; until, 
upon the night and solitude of their captivity, there burst the 
sudden noon and life of the vast theatre crowded to the para- 
pet, and of these, their dreaded neighbors, bounding in ! 

Below the church of San Sebastiano, two miles beyond the 
gate of San Sebastiano, on the Appian Way, is the entrance to 
the catacombs of Rome — quarries in the old time, but after' 



PICTURED FROM ITALY. 



535 



wards the hiding-places of the Christians. These ghastly 
passages have been explored for twenty miles ; and form a 
chain of labyrinths, sixty miles in circumference. 

A gaunt Franciscan friar, with a wild bright eye, Mas our 
only guide clown into 'his profound and dreadful place. The 
narrow ways and openings hither and thither, coupled with 
the dead and heavy air, soon blotted out, in all of us, any re- 
collection of the track by which we had come ; and I could 
not help thinking, " Good Heaven, if, in a sudden fit of mad- 
ness, he should dash the torches out, or if he should be seized 
with a fit, what would become of us ! " On we wandered, 
among martyr's graves : passing great subterranean vaulted 
roads, diverging in all directions, and choked up with heaps 
of stones, that thieves and murderers may not take refuge 
there, and form a population under Rome, even worse than 
that which lives between it and the sun. Graves, graves, 
graves ; Graves of men, of women, of their little children, who 
ran crying to the persecutors, " We are Christians ! We are 
Christians ! " that they might be murdered with their parents; 
Graves with the palm of martyrdom roughly cut into their 
stone boundaries, and little niches, made to hold a vessel of 
the martyrs' blood ; Graves of some who lived down here, 
for years together, ministering to the rest, and preaching 
truth, and hope, and comfort, from the rude altars, that bear 
witness to their fortitude at this hour ; more roomy graves, 
but far more terrible, where hundreds, being surprised, were 
hemmed in and walled up : buried before Death, and killed 
by slow starvation. 

" The Triumphs of the Faith are not above ground in our 
splendid churches," said the friar, looking round upon us, as 
we stopped to rest in one of the low passages, with bones and 
dust surrounding us on every side. " They are here ! Among 
the Martyrs' Graves ! " He was a gentle, earnest man, and 
said it from his heart ; but when I thought how Christian men 
have dealt with one another ; how, perverting our most merci- 
ful religion, they have hunted down and tortured, burnt and 
beheaded, strangled, slaughtered, and oppressed each other ; I 
pictured to myself an agony surpassing any that this Dust had 
suffered with the breath of life yet lingering in it, and how 
these great and constant hearts would have been shaken — ■ 
how they would have quailed and drooped — if a fore-knowl- 
edge of the deeds that professing Christians would commit in 
the Great Name for which they died, could have rent them 



536 



PI CTC RES FROM ITALY. 



with its own unutterable anguish, on the cruel wheel, and 
bitter cross, and in the fearful lire. 

Such are the spots and patches in my dream of churches., 
that remain apart, and keep their separate identity. I have 
a fainter recollection, sometimes of the relics ; of the frag- 
ments of the pillar of the Temple that was rem in twain ; of 
the portion of the table that was spread for the Last Supper ; 
of the well at which the woman of Samaria gave water to Our 
Saviour : of two columns from the house of Pontius Pilate • of 
the stone to which the Sacred hands were bound, when the 
scourging was performed ; of the gridiron of Saint Lawrence, 
and the stone below it, marked with the frying of his fat and 
blood ; these set a shadowy mark on some cathedrals, as an 
old story, or a fable might, and stop them for an instant, as 
they flit before me. The rest is a vast wilderness of conse- 
crated buildings of all shapes and fancies, blending one with 
another; of battered pillars of old Pagan temples, dug up 
from the ground, and forced, like giant captives, to support 
the roofs of Christian churches; of pictures, bad, and wonder- 
ful, and impious, and ridiculous ; of kneeling people, curling 
incense, tinkling bells, and sometimes (but not often) of a 
swelling organ ; of Madonne, with their breasts stuck full cf 
swords, arranged in a half-circle like a modern fan ; of actual 
skeletons of dead saints, hideously attired in gaudy satins, 
silks, and velvets trimmed with gold : their withered crust of 
skull adorned with precious jewels, or with chaplets of crushed 
flowers ; sometimes, of people gathered round the pulpit, and 
a monk within it stretching out the crucifix, and preaching 
fiercely : the sun just streaming down through some high win- 
dow on the sail-cloth stretched above him and across the 
church, to keep his high-pitched voice from being lost among 
the echoes of the roof. Then my tired memory comes out 
upon a night of steps, where knots of people are asleep, or 
basking in the light ; and strolls away, among the rags, and 
smells, and palaces, and hovels, of an old Italian street. 

On one Saturday morning (the eighth of March), a man 
was beheaded here. Nine or ten months before, he had way- 
laid a Bavarian countess, travelling as a pilgrim to Rome- 
alone and on foot, of course — and performing, it is said, that 
act of piety for the fourth time. He saw her change a piece 
of gold at Viterbo, where he lived ; followed her ; bore her 
company on her journey for some forty miles or more, on the 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



537 



treacherous pretext of protecting her ; attacked her, in the 
fulfilment of his unrelenting purpose, on the Campagna, 
within a very short distance of Rome, near to what is called 
(but what is iTot) the Tomb of Nero ; robbed her ; and beat 
her to death with her own pilgrim's staff. He was newly 
married, and gave some of her apparel to his wife : saying that 
he had bought it at a fair. She, however, who had seen the 
pilgrim-countess passing through their town, recognized some 
trifle as having belonged to her. Her husband then told her 
what he had done. She, in confession, told a priest • and the 
man was taken, within four days after the commission of the 
murder. 

There are no fixed times for the administration of justice, 
or its execution, in this unaccountable country ; and he had 
been in prison ever since. On the Friday, as he was dining 
with the other prisoners, they came and told him he was to 
be beheaded next morning, and took him away. It is very 
unusual to execute in Lent ; but his crime being a very bad 
one, it was deemed advisable to make an example of him at 
that time, when great numbers of pilgrims were coming 
towards Rome, from all parts, for the Holy Week. I heard 
of this on the Friday evening, and saw the bills up at the 
churches, calling on the people to pray for the criminal's 
soul. So, I determined to go, and see him executed. 

The beheading was appointed for fourteen and a-half 
o'clock, Roman time : or a quarter before nine in the fore- 
noon. I had two friends with me ; and as we did not know 
but that the crowd might be very great, we were on the spot 
by half-past seven. The place of execution was near the 
church of San Giovanni decollate (a doubtful compliment to 
Saint John the Baptist) in one of the impassable back streets 
without any footway, of which a great part of Rome is com- 
posed — a street of rotten houses, which do not seem to belong 
to anybody, and do not seem to have ever been inhabited, 
and certainly were never built on any plan, or for any parti- 
cular purpose, and have no window-sashes, and are a -Jittle 
like deserted breweries, and might be warehouses but for 
having nothing in them. Opposite to one of these, a white 
house, the scaffold was built. An untidy, unpainted, uncouth, 
crazy-looking thing of course : some seven feet high, perhaps ; 
with a tall, gallows shaped frame rising above it, in which was 
the knife, charged with a ponderous mass of iron, all ready to 
descend, and glittering brightly in the morning-sun, whenever 
it looked out, now and then, from behind a cloud. 



c 3 8 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

There were not many people lingering about ; and these 
were kept" at a considerable distance from the scaffold, by 
parties of the Pope's dragoons. Two or three hundred foot- 
soldiers were under arms, standing at ease in* clusters here 
and there • and the officers were walking up and down in twos 
and threes, chatting together, and smoking cigars. 

At the end of the street, was an open space, where there 
would be a dust-heap, and piles of broken crockery, and 
mounds of vegetable refuse, but for such things being thrown 
anywhere and everywhere, in Rome, and favoring no parti- 
cular sort of locality. We got into a kind of wash-house, be- 
longing to a dwelling-house on this spot ; and standing there 
in an old cart, and on a heap of cart-wheels piled against the 
wall, looked, through a large grated window, at the scaffold, 
and straight down the street beyond it, until, in consequence 
of its turning off abruptly to the left, our perspective was 
brought to a sudden termination, and had a corpulent officer, 
in a cocked hat, for its crowning feature. 

Nine o'clock struck, and ten o'clock struck, and nothing 
happened. All the bells of all the churches rang as usual. 
A little parliament of dogs assembled in the open space, and 
chased each other, in and out among the soldiers. Fierce- 
looking Romans of the lowest class, in blue cloaks, russet 
cloaks, and rags uncloaked, came and went, and talked to- 
gether. Women and children fluttered, on the skirts of the 
scanty crowd. One large muddy spot was left quite bare, like 
a bald place on a man's head. A cigar-merchant, with an 
earthern pot of charcoal ashes in one hand, went up and 
down, crying his wares. A pastry-merchant divided his at- 
tention between the scaffold and his customers. Boys tried 
to climb up walls, and tumbled down again. Priests and 
monks elbowed a passage for themselves among the people, 
and stood on tiptoe for a sight of the knife ; then went away. 
Artists, in inconceivable hats of the middle-ages, and beards 
(thank Heaven ! ) of no age at all, flashed picturesque scowls 
about them from their stations in the throng. One gentleman 
(connected with the fine arts, I presume) went up and down 
in a pair of Hessian-boots, with a red beard hanging down on 
his breast, and his long and bright red hair, plaited into two 
tails, one on either side of his head, which fell over his 
shoulders in front of him, very nearly to his waist, and were 
carefully entwined and braided ! 

Eleven o'clock struck ; and still nothing happened., A ru« 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



539 



mor got about, among the crowd, that the criminal would not 
confess ; in which case, the priests would keep him until the 
Ave Maria (sunset) ; for it is their merciful custom never 
finally to turn the crucifix away from a man at that pass, as 
one refusing to be shriven, and consequently a sinner aban- 
doned of the Saviour, until then. People began to drop off. 
The officers shrugged their shoulders and looked doubtful. 
The dragoons, who came riding up below our window, every 
now and then, to order an unlucky hackney-coach or cart 
away, as soon as it had comfortably established itself, and 
was covered with exulting people (but never before), became 
imperious and quick-tempered. The bald place hadn't a strag- 
gling hair upon it ; and the corpulent officer, crowning the 
perspective, took a world of snuff. 

Suddenly, there was a noise of trumpets. " Attention ! '"' 
w r as among the foot-soldiers instantly. They were marched 
up to the scaffold and formed round it. The dragoons gal- 
loped to their nearer stations too. The guillotine became the 
centre of a wood of bristling bayonets and shining sabres. 
The people closed round nearer, on the flank of the soldiery. 
A long straggling stream of men and boys, who had accom- 
panied the procession from the prison, came pouring into the 
open space. The bald spot w r as scarcely distinguishable from 
the rest. The cigar and pastry-merchants resigned all 
thoughts of business, for the moment, and abandoning them- 
selves wholly to pleasure, got good situations in the crowd. 
The perspective ended, now, in a troop of dragoons. And 
the corpulent officer, sword in hand, looked hard at a church 
close to him, which he could see, but we, the crowd, could not. 

After a short delay, some monks were seen approaching 
to the scaffold from this church ; and above their heads, com 
irig on slowly and gloomily, the effigy of Christ upon the cross, 
canopied with black. This was carried round the foot of the 
scaffold, to the front, and turned towards the criminal, that 
he might see it to the last. It was hardly in its place, when 
he appeared on the platform, bare-footed ; his hands bound ; 
and with the collar and neck of his shirt cut away, almost to 
the shoulder. A young man — six-and-twenty — vigorously 
made, and well-shaped. Face pale ; small dark mustache ; 
and dark brown hair. 

He had refused to confess, it seemed, without first having 
his wife brought to see him ; and they had sent an escort for 
her, which had occasioned the delay. 



- [0 /'/< ■ I'i Kl-.S IKOM ITAL V. 

lie immediately kneeled down, below ilie knife. His 
!>«•< k fluting inio a hole, made for the purpose, in ;i I Toss 
plank, w;is slni! down, by another plank above ; exactly like 
the pillory. Immediately below him was a leathern ba^. 
And into it his head rolled instantly. 

The executioner was holding it by the hair, and walking 
with it round the sealTold, showing it to the people, before 
one quite knew that the knife had fallen heavily, and with a 
rattlini;' sound. 

When it had travelled round the four sides of the scaffold, 
it was set upon a pole in front -a. little patch of black and 
white, for the lon«>; street to stare at, and the flies to settle on. 
The eyes were turned upward, as if he had avoided the sight 
Of the leathern bag, and looked to the crucifix. Kvery CitogB 
and line ol life had it left in (hat instant. 1 1 was dull, cold, 
livid, wax. The bod}' also. 

There was a great deal of blood. When we left the win- 
dow, and went close up to the scaffold, it was very dirty ; one 
ol the two men who were t browing water over it, turning to 
help the other lift the body into a shell, picked his way as 
through mire. A strange appearance was the apparent an- 
nihilation of the neek. The head was taken off so close, that 
it seemed as if the knife had narrowly escaped crushing the 
jaw, or shaving off the ear ; and the body looked as if there 
were nothing left above the shoulder. 

Nobody bated', or was at all affected. Then' was no mani- 
festation of disgust, or pity, or indignation, or sorrow. My 
empty pockets were tried, several times, in the crowd imme- 
diately below the scaffold, as the corpse was being put into 
its coffin. It. was an Ugly, filthy] careless, sickening spec- 
tacle ; meatting nothing but butchery beyond the momentary 
interest, to the One wretched actor. Ytsl Such a su>;ht 
has oik- meaning; and One warning,. bet me not forget it. 

The speculators in the lottery station themselves at favoraiwe 

joints for counting the gOUtS of blood that Stoirt out, hen' or 
there; and buy that number. It is pretty sure to have a, run 
upon it. 

The body was carted away indue time, the knife cleansed, 

the scaffold taken down, and all tin- hideous apparatus re- 
moved. The executioner : an outlaw, '.v officio ( what a satire 
on the Punishment ! | who dare not, for his life, cross the 
Bridge ol Si. \na,elo but to do his yyoik : retreated to his lair, 
and the show was over. 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



54* 



At the head of the collections in the palaces of Rome, the 
Vatican, of course, with its treasures of art, its enormous gal- 
leries, and staircases, and suites upon suites of immense cham- 
bers, ranks highest and stands foremost. Many most noble 
statues, and wonderful pictures, are there ; nor is it heresy 
to say that there is a considerable amount of rubbish there, 
too. When any old piece of sculpture dug out of the ground, 
finds a place in a gallery because it is old, and without any 
reference to its intrinsic merits : and finds admirers by the 
hundred, because it is there, and for no other reason on earth : 
there will be no lack of objects, very indifferent in the plain 
eyesight of any one who employs so vulgar a property, when 
he may wear the spectacles of Cant for less than nothing, and 
establish himself as a man of taste for the mere trouble of 
putting them on. 

I unreservedly confess, for myself, that 1 cannot leave my 
natural perception of what is natural and true, at a palace- 
door, in Italy or elsewhere, as I should leave my shoes if I 
were travelling in the East. I cannot forget that there are 
certain expressions of face, natural to certain passions, and as 
unchangeable in their nature as the gait of a lion, or the flight 
of an eagle. 1 cannot dismiss from my certain knowledge, such 
common-place facts as the ordinary proportion of men's arms, 
and legs, and heads ; and when I meet with performances that 
do violence to these experiences and recollections, no matter 
where they may be, I cannot honestly admire them, and think 
it best to say so ; in spite of high critical advice that we should 
sometimes feign an admiration, though we have it not. 

Therefore, I freely acknowledge that when I see a Jolly 
young Waterman representing a cherubim, or a Barclay and 
Perkins's J)rayman depicted as an Evangelist, I see nothing 
to commend or admire in the performance, however great its re- 
puted Painter. Neither am 1 partial to libellous Angels, who 
play on fiddles and bassoons, for the edification of sprawling 
monks apparently in liquor. Nor to those Monsieur Tonsons 
of galleries, Saint Francis and Saint Sebastian ; both of whom 
1 submit should have very uncommon and rare merits, as 
works of art, to justify their compound multiplication by Ital- 
ian Painters. 

It seems to me, too, that the indiscriminate and deter- 
mined raptures in which some critics indulge, is incompatible 
with the true appreciation of the really great and transcendent 
works. f cannot imagine, for example, how the resolute 



542 PICTURES FROM ITAL K 

champion of undeserving pictures can soar to the amazing 
beauty of Titian's great picture of the Assumption of the Vir- 
gin at Venice ; or how the man who is truly affected by the 
sublimity of that exquisite production, or who is truly sensi- 
ble of the beauty of Tintoretto's great picture of the Assem- 
bly of the Blessed in the same place, can discern in Michael 
Angelos Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel, any general 
idea, or one pervading thought, in harmony with the stupen- 
dous subject. He who will contemplate Raphael's masterpiece, 
the Transfiguration, and will go away into another chamber of 
that same Vatican, and contemplate another design of Ra- 
phael, representing (in incredible caricature) the miraculous 
stopping of a great fire by Leo the Fourth— and who will say 
that he admires them both, as works of extraordinary genius 
— must, as I think, be wanting in his powers of perception in 
one of the two instances, and, probably, in the high and lofty 



one. 



It is easy to suggest a doubt, but I have a great doubt 
whether, sometimes, the rules of art are not too strictly 
observed, and whether it is quite well or agreeable that we 
should know beforehand, where this figure will be turning 
round, and where that figure will be lying down, and where 
there will be drapery in folds, and so forth. When I observe 
heads inferior to the subject, in pictures of merit, in Italian 
galleries, I do not attach that reproach to the Painter, for I 
have a suspicion that these great men, who were, of necessity, 
very much in the hands of monks and priests, painted monks 
and priests a great deal too often. I frequently see* in pic- 
tures of real power, heads quite below the story and the 
painter : and I invariably observe that those heads are of the 
Convent stamp, and have their counterparts among the Con- 
vent inmates of this hour ■ so, I have settled with myself that, 
in such cases, the lameness was not with the painter, but with 
the vanity and ignorance of certain of his employers, who 
would be apostles — on canvas, at all events. 

The exquisite grace and beauty of Canova's statues ; the 
wonderful gravity and repose of many of the ancient works in 
sculpture, both in the Capitol and the Vatican ; and the 
strength and fire of many others ; are, in their different ways, 
beyond all reach of words. They are especially impressive 
and delightful, after the works of Bernini and his disciples, in 
which the churches of Rome, from St. Peter's downward, 
abound ; and which are, I verily believe, the most detestable 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. ^3 

class of productions in the wide world. I would infinitely 
rather (as mere works of art) look upon the three deities of the 
Fast, the Present, and the Future, in the Chinese Collection, 
than upon the best of these breezy maniacs ; whose every fold 
of drapery is blown inside-our ; whose smallest vein, or artery, 
is as big as an ordinary forefinger ; whose hair is like a nest 
of lively snakes ; and whose attitudes put all other extrav- 
agance to shame. Insomuch that I do honestly believe, there 
can be no place in the world, where such intolerable abortions, 
begotten of the sculptor's chisel, are to be found in such pro- 
fusion, as in Rome. 

There is a fine collection of Egyptian antiquities in the 
Vatican ; and the ceilings of the rooms in which they are 
arranged, are painted to represent a starlight sky in the 
Desert. It may seem an odd idea, but it is very effective. 
The grim, half-human monsters from the temples, look more 
grim and monstrous underneath the deep dark blue ; it sheds 
a strange uncertain gloomy air on everything — a mystery- 
adapted to the objects; and you leave them, as you find them, 
shrouded in a solemn night. 

In the private palaces, pictures are seen to the best advan- 
tage. There are seldom so many in one place that the atten- 
tion need become distracted, or the eye confused. You see 
them very leisurely ; and are rarely interrupted by a crowd of 
people. There are portraits innumerable, by Titian, and 
Rembrandt, and Vandyke ; heads by Guido, and Domenichino, 
and Carlo Dolci ; various subjects by Correggio, and Murillo, 
and Raphael, and Salvator Rosa, and Spagnoletto — many of 
which it would be difficult, indeed, to praise too highly, or to 
praise enough ; such is their tenderness and grace ; their 
noble elevation, purity, and beauty. 

The portrait of Beatrice di Cenci, in the Palazzo Berberini, 
is a picture almost impossible to be forgotten. Through the 
transcendent sweetness and beauty of the face, there is a 
something shining out, that haunts me. I see it now, as I see 
this paper, or my pen. The head is loosely draped in white ; 
the light hair falling down below the linen folds. She has 
turned suddenly towards you ; and there is an expression in 
the eyes — although they are very tender and gentle — as if the 
wildness of a momentary terror, or distraction, had been 
struggled with and overcome, that instant; and nothing but a 
celestial hope, and a beautiful sorrow, and a desolate earthly 
helplessness remained. Some stories say that Guido painted 



;44 



PICTURES FROM ITALV 



it, the night before her execution ; some other stories, that he 
painted it from memory, after having seen her, on her way to 
the scaffold. I am willing to believe that, as you see her on 
his canvas, so she turned towards him, in the crowd, from the 
first sight of the axe, and stamped upon his mind a look which 
he has stamped on mine as though I had stood beside him in 
the concourse. The guilty palace of the Cenci : blighting a 
whole quarter of the town, as it stands withering away by 
grains : had that face, to my fancy, in its dismal porch, and 
at its black blind windows, and flitting up and down its dreary 
stairs, and growing out of the darkness of the ghostly galleries. 
The History is written in the Painting ; written, in the dying 
girl's face, by Nature's own hand. And oh ! how in that one 
touch she puts to flight (instead of making kin) the puny world 
that claim to be related to her, in right of poor, conventional 
forgeries ! 

I saw in the Palazzo Spada, the statue of Pompey ; the 
statue at whose base Caesar fell. A stern, tremendous figure ! 
I imagined one of greater finish : of the last refinement : 
full of delicate touches : losing its distinctness, in the giddy 
eyes of one whose blood was ebbing before it, and settling 
into some such rigid majesty as this, as Death came creeping 
over the upturned face. 

The excursions in the neighborhood of Rome are charm- 
ing, and would be full of interest were it only for the changing 
views they afford, of the wild Campagna. But, every inch of 
ground, in every direction, is rich in associations, and in 
natural beauties. There is Albano, with its lovely lake and 
wooded shore, and with its wine, that certainly has not im- 
proved since the days of Horace, and in these times hardly 
justifies his panegyric. There is squalid Tivoli, with the river 
Anio, diverted from its course, and plunging down, headlong, 
some eighty feet in search of it. With its picturesque Temple 
of the Sibyl, perched high on a crag ; its minor waterfalls 
glancing and sparkling in the sun ; and one good cavern 
yawning darkly, where the river takes a fearful plunge and 
shoots on, low down under beetling rocks. There, too, is the 
Villa d'Este, deserted ■ and decaying among groves of melan- 
choly pine and cypress-trees, where it seems to lie in state. 
Then, there is Frascati, and, on the steep above it, the ruins 
of Tusculum, where Cicero lived, and wrote, and adorned his 
favorite house (some fragments of it may yet be seen there), 
and where Cato was born. We saw its ruined amphitheatre 



PICTURES FROM tTAh V. ^ 

on a gray dull day, when a sh'riH March wind was blowing, 
and when the scattered stones of the old city lay strewn about 
the lonely eminence, as desolate and dead as the ashes of a 
long extinguished fire. 

One day we walked out, a little party of three, to Albano, 
fourteen miles distant ; possessed by a great desire to go 
there by the ancient Appian way, long since ruined and over- 
grown. We started at half-past seven in the morning, and 
within ah hour or so were out upon the open Campagna. For 
twelve miles we went climbing on, over an unbroken succes- 
sion of mounds, and heaps, and hills, of ruin. Tombs and 
temples, overthrown and prostrate ; small fragments of 
columns, friezes, pediments ; great blocks of granite and 
marble ; mouldering arches, grass-grown and decayed ; ruin 
enough to build a spacious city from ; lay strewn about us. 
Sometimes, loose wails, built up from these fragments by the 
shepherds, came across our path ; sometimes, a ditch between 
two mounds of broken stones, obstructed our piogress ; some- 
times, the fragments themselves, rolling from beneath our 
feet, made it a toilsome matter to advance ;- but it was always 
ruin. Now, we tracked a piece of the old road, above the 
ground; now traced it, underneath a grassy covering, as if 
that were its grave ; but all the way was ruin. In the distance, 
ruined aqueducts went stalking on their giant course along 
the plain ; and every breath of wind that swept towards us, 
stirred early flowers and grasses, springing up, spontaneously, 
on miles of ruin The unseen larks above us, who alone dis- 
turbed the awful silence, had their nests in ruin ; and the 
fierce herdsmen, clad in sheepskins, who now and then 
scowled out upon us from their sleeping nooks, were housed 
in ruin. The aspect of the desolate Campagna in one direc- 
tion, where it was most level, reminded me of an American 
prairie ; but what is the solitude of a- region where men have 
never dwelt, to that of a Desert, where a mighty race have 
left their foot-prints in the earth from which they have van- 
ished • where the resting-places of their Dead, have fallen 
like their Dead ; and the broken hour glass of Time is but a 
heap of idle dust ! Returning, by the road, at sunset ! and 
looking, from the distance, on the course we had taken in the 
morning, I almost felt (as I had felt when I first saw it, at 
that hour) as if the sun would never rise again, but looked its 
last, that night, upon a ruined world. 

To come again on Rome, by moonlight, after such an -ex- 



r.4& 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



peart-it ion, is a fitting close to such a day". The narrow streets, 
devoid of footways, and choked, in every obscure corner, by 
heaps of dunghill-rubbish, contrast so strongly, in theii 
cramped dimensions, and their filth, and darkness, with the 
broad square before some haughty church : in the centre of 
which, a hieroglyphic-covered obelisk, brought from Egypt in 
the days of the Emperors, looks strangely on the foreign 
scene about it ; or perhaps an ancient pillar, with its honored 
statue overthrown, supports a Christian saint : Marcus Aure- 
lius giving place to Paul, and Trajan to St. Peter. Then, 
there are the ponderous buildings reared from the spoliation 
of the Coliseum, shutting out the moon, like mountains : while 
here and there, are broken arches and rent walls, through 
which it gushes freely, as the life comes pouring from a 
wound. The little town of miserable houses, walled, and shut 
in by barred gates, is the quarter where the Jews are locked 
up nightly, when the clock strikes eight — a miserable place, 
densely populated, and reeking with bad odors, but where 
the people are industrious and money-getting. In the day- 
time, as you make your way along the narrow streets, you see 
them all at work : upon the pavement, oftener than in their 
dark and frouzy shops : furbishing old clothes, and driving 
bargains. 

Crossing from these patches of thick darkness, out into 
the moon once more, the fountain of Trevi, welling 
from a hundred jets, and rolling over mimic rocks, is 
silvery to the eye and ear. In the narrow little throat of 
street, beyond, a booth, dressed out with flaring lamps, and 
boughs of trees, attracts a group of sulky Romans round its 
smoky coppers of hot broth, and cauliflower stew ; its trays 
of fried fish, and its flasks of wine. As you rattle round the 
sharply-twisting corner, a lumbering sound is heard. The 
coachman stops abruptly, and uncovers, as a van conies 
slowly by, preceded by a man who bears a large cross ; by a 
torch-bearer; and a priest: the latter chaunting as he goes. 
It is the Dead Cart, with the bodies of the poor, on their 
way to burial in the Sacred Field outside the walls, where 
they will be thrown into the pit that will be covered with a 
stone to-night, and sealed up for a year. 

But whether, in this ride, you pass by obelisks, or col. 
umns : ancient temples, theatres, houses, porticoes, or forums : 
it is strange to see, how every fragment, whenever it is possi- 
ble, has been blended into some modern structure, and made 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. t; 47 

to serve some modern purpose — a wall, a dwelling-place, a 
granary, a stable — some use for which it never was designed, 
and associated with which it cannot otherwise than lamely 
assort. It is stranger still, to see how many ruins of the old 
mythology : how many fragments of obsolete legend and ob- 
servance : have been incorporated into the w r orship of Chris- 
tian altars here ; and how, in numberless respects, the false 
faith and the true are fused into a monstrous union. 

From one part of the city, looking out beyond the walls, a 
squat and stunted pyramid (the burial-place of Caius Cestius) 
makes an opaque triangle in the moonlight. But, to an Eng- 
lish traveller, it serves to mark the grave of Shelley too, 
whose ashes lie beneath a little garden near it. Nearer still, 
almost within its shadow, lie the bones of Keats, " whose 
name is writ in water," that shines brightly in the landscape 
of a calm Italian night. 

The Holy Week in Rome is supposed to offer great at- 
tractions to all visitors ; but, saving for the sights of Easter 
Sunday, I would counsel those who go to Rome for its own 
interest, to avoid it at that time. The ceremonies, in gen- 
eral, are of the most tedious and wearisome kind ; the heat and 
crowd at every one of them, painfully oppressive ; the noise, 
hubbub, and confusion, quite distracting. We abandoned the 
pursuit of these shows, very early in the proceedings, and 
betook ourselves to the Ruins again. But, we plunged into 
the crowd for a share of the best of the sights \ and what we 
saw, I will describe to you. 

At the Sistine chapel, on the Wednesday, we saw very lit- 
tle, for by the time we reached it (though we were early) the 
besieging crowd had filled it to the door, and overflowed into 
the adjoining hall, where they were struggling, and squeez- 
ing, and mutually expostulating, and making great rushes 
every time a lady was brought out faint, as if at least fifty 
people could be accommodated in her vacant standing-room. 
Hanging in the doorway of the chapel, was a heavy curtain, 
and this curtain, some twenty people nearest to it, in then- 
anxiety to hear the chaunting of the Miserere, were continu- 
ally plucking at, in opposition to each other, that it might 
not fall down and stifle the sound of the voices. The conse- 
quence was, that it occasioned the most extraordinary confu- 
sion, and seemed to wind itself about the unwary, like a 
Serpent. Now, a lady was wrapped up in it, and couldn't be 



3 4 S PTC TURKS FR OM J TA L V. 

unwound. Now, the voice of a stifling gentleman was heard 
inside it, beseeching to be let out. Now, two muffled arms, 
no man could say of which sex, struggled in it as in a sack. 
Now, it was carried by a rush, bodily overhead into the 
Chapel, like an awning. Now, it came out the other way, 
and blinded one of the Pope's Swiss Guard, who had arrived, 
that moment, to set things to rights. 

Being seated at a little distance, among two or three of 
the Pope's gentlemen, who were very weary and counting the 
minutes— as perhaps his Holiness was too — we had better 
opportunities of observing this eccentric entertainment, than 
of hearing the Miserere. 'Sometimes, there was a swell of 
mournful voices that sounded very pathetic and sad, and died 
away, into a low strain again • but that, was all we heard. 

At another time, there was the Exhibition of the Relics in 
Saint Peter's, which took place at between six and seven 
o'clock in the evening, and was striking from the cathedral 
being dark and gloomy, and having a great many people in 
it. The place into which the relics were brought, one by one, 
by a party of three priests, was a high balcony near the chief 
altar. This was the only lighted part of the church. There 
are always a hundred and twelve lamps burning near the altar, 
and there were two tall tapers, besides, near the black 
Statue of St. Peter ; but these were nothing in such an im- 
mense edifice. The gloom and the general up-turning of 
faces to the balcony, and the prostration of true believers on 
the pavement, as shining objects, like pictures or looking- 
glasses, were brought out and shown, had something effec- 
tive in it, despite the very preposterous manner in which they 
were held up for the general edification, and the great eleva- 
tion at which they were displayed ; which one would think 
rather calculated to diminish the comfort derivable from a full 
conviction of their being genuine. 

On the Thursday, we went to see the Pope convey the 
Sacrament from the Sistine chapel, to deposit it in the Ca- 
peila Paolina, another chapel in the Vatican ; — a ceremony 
emblematical of the entombment of the Saviour before His 
Resurrection. We waited in a great gallery with a great 
crowd of people (three-fourths of them English) for an hour 
or so, while they were chaunting the Miserere, in the Sistine 
chapel again. Both chapels opened out of the gallery ; and 
the general attention was concentrated on the occasional 
opening and shutting of the door of the one for which the 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 54 § 

Pope was ultimately bound. None of these openings disclosed 
anything more tremendous than a man on a ladder, lighting 
a great quantity of candles ; but at each and every opening, 
there was a terrific rush made at this ladder and this man, some- 
thing like (I should think) a charge of the heavy British cav- 
alry at Waterloo. The man was never brought down, how- 
ever, nor the ladder ; for it performed the strangest antics in 
the world among the crowd — where it was carried by the man 
when the candles were all lighted ; and finally it was stuck up 
against the gallery wall, in a very disorderly manner, just be- 
fore the opening, of the other chapel, and the commencement 
of a new chaunt, announced the approach of his Holiness. 
At this crisis, the soldiers of the guard, who had been poking 
the crowd into all sorts of shapes, formed down the gallery : 
and the procession came up, between the two .lines they macle. 

The~e were a few choristers, and then a great many priests, 
walking nvo and two, and carrying — the good-looking priests 
at least— their lighted tapers, so as to throw the light with a 
good effect upon their faces: for the room was darkened. 
Those who were not handsome, or who had not long beards, 
carried their tapers anyhow, and abandoned themselves to 
spiritual contemplation. Meanwhile the chaunting was very 
monotonous and dreary. The procession passed on, slowly, 
into the chapel, and the drone of voices went on, and came 
on, with it, until the Pope himself appeared, walking under 
a white satin canopy, and bearing the covered Sacrament in 
both hands ; cardinals and canons clustered round him, making 
a brilliant show. The soldiers of the guard knelt down 
as he passed; all the bystanders bowed; and so he passed 
on into the chapel : the white satin canopy being removed 
from over him at the door, and a white satin parasol hoisted 
over his poor old head, in place of it. A few more couples 
brought up the rear, and passed into the chapel also. Then, 
the chapel door was shut ; and it was all over ; and everybody 
hurried off headlong, as for life or death, to see something 
else, and say it wasn't worth the trouble. 

I think the most popular and most crowded sight (except- 
ing those of Easter Sunday and Monday, -which are open to 
all classes of people) was the Pope washing the feet of Thir- 
teen men, representing the twelve apostles, and Judas Iscariot. 
The place in which this pious office is performed, is one of 
the chapels of St. Peter's, which is gayly decorated for the 
occasion j the thirteen sitting, " all of a row," on a very high 



55° 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 



bench, and looking particularly uncomfortable, with the eyes 
of Heaven knows how many English, French, American, 
Swiss, Germans, Russians, Swedes, Norwegians, and other 
foreigners, nailed to their faces all the time. They are robed 
in white • and on their heads they wear a stiff white cap, like 
a large English porter-pot, without a handle. Each carries in 
his hand, a nosegay, of the size of a fine cauliflower; and 
two of them, on this occasion, wore spectacles : which, remem- 
bering the characters they sustained, I thought a droll appen 
dage to their costume. There was a great eye to character. 
St. John was represented by a good-looking young man. St. 
Peter, by a grave-looking old gentleman, with a flowing brown 
beard ; and Judas Iscariot by such an enormous hypocrite (I 
could not make out, though, whether the expression of his 
face was real or assumed) that if he had acted the part to the 
death and had gone away and hanged himself, he would have 
left nothing to be desired. 

As the two large boxes, appropriated to ladies at this 
sight, were full to the throat, and getting near was hopeless, 
we posted off, along with a great crowd, to be in time at the 
Table, where the Pope, in person, waits on these Thirteen • and 
after a prodigious struggle at the Vatican staircase, and several 
personal conflicts with the Swiss guard, the whole crowd swept 
into the room. It was a long gallery hung with drapery of 
white and red, with another great box for ladies (who are 
obliged to dress in black at these ceremonies, and to wear black 
veils), a royal box for the King of Naples and his party ; and 
the table itself, which, set out like a ball supper, and orna- 
mented with golden figures of the real apostles, was arranged 
on an elevated platform on one side of the gallery. The 
counterfeit apostles' knives and forks were laid out on that 
side of the table which was nearest to the wall, so that they 
might be stared at again, without let or hindrance. 

The body of the room was full of male strangers ; the 
crowd immense ; the heat ye,ry great ; and the pressure some- 
times frightful. It was at its height, when the stream 
came pouring in, from the feet-washing ; and then there were 
such shrieks and outcries, that a party of Piedmontese dra- 
goons went to the rescue of the Swiss guard, and helped them 
to calm the tumult. 

The ladies were particularly ferocious, in their struggles 
for places. One lady of my acquaintance was seized round 
the waist, in the ladies' box, by a strong matron, and hoisted 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



55* 



out of her place ■ and there was another lady (in a back row 
in the same box) who improved her position by sticking a 
large pin into the ladies before her. 

The gentlemen about me were remarkably anxious to see 
what was on the table ; and one Englishman seemed to have 
embarked the whole energy of his nature in the determination 
to discover Whether there was any mustard. " By Jupiter 
there's vinegar ! " I heard him say to his friend, after he had 
stood on tiptoe an immense time, and had been crushed and 
beaten on all sides. " And there's oil ! I saw them distinctly, 
in cruets ! Can any gentleman in front there see mustard or 
the table ? Sir, will you oblige me 1 Do you see a Mustard 
Pot ? " 

The apostles and Judas appearing on the platform, after 
much expectation, were marshalled in line, in front of the 
table with Peter at the top ; and a good long stare was taken 
at them by the company, while twelve of them took a long 
smell at their nosegays, and Judas — moving his lips very ob- 
trusively — engaged in inward prayer. Then the Pope, clad in 
a scarlet robe, and wearing on his head a skull-cap of white 
satin, appeared in the midst of a crowd of Cardinals and 
other dignitaries, and took in his hand a little golden ewer, 
from which he poured a little water over one of Peter's hands 
while one attendant held a golden basin ; a second a line 
cloth ; a third, Peter's nosegay, which was taken from him 
during the operation. This his Holiness performed with con- 
siderable expedition, on every man in the line (Judas, I ob- 
served, to be particularly overcome by his condescension); and 
then the whole Thirteen sat down to dinner. Grace said by 
the Pope. Peter in the chair. 

There was white wine, and red wine : and the dinner 
looked very good. The courses appeared in portions, one for 
each apostle : and these being presented to the Pope, by 
Cardinals upon their knees, were by him handed to the Thir- 
teen. The manner in which Judas grew more white-livered 
over his victuals, and languished, with his head on one side, 
as if he had no appetite, defies all description. Peter was a 
good, sound, old man, and went in, as the saying is, " to win : " 
eating everything that was given him (he got the best : being 
first in the row) and saying nothing to anybody. The 
dishes appeared to be chiefly composed of fish and vegetables. 
The Pope helped the Thirteen to wine also ; and, during the 
whole dinner, somebody read something aloud, out of a large 



S52 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

book — the Bible, I presume— which nobody could hear, and 
to which nobody paid the least attention. The Cardinals, 
and other attendants, smiled to each other, from time to time, 
as if the thing were a great farce ; and if they thought so, 
there is little doubt they were perfectly right. His Holiness 
did what he had to do, as a sensible man gets through- a 
troublesome ceremony, and seemed very glad when it was all 
over. 

The Pilgrims' Suppers ; where lords and ladies waited on 
the Pilgrims, in token of humility, and dried their feet when 
they had been well washed by deputy, were very attractive. 
But, of all the many spectacles of dangerous reliance on out- 
ward observances, in themselves mere empty forms, none 
struck me half so much as the Scala Santa, or Holy Staircase, 
which I saw several times, but to the greatest advantage, or 
disadvantage, on Good Friday. 

This holy staircase is composed of eight-ancl-twenty steps,, 
said to have belonged to Pontius Pilate's house, and to be the 
identical stairs on which Our Saviour trod, in coming down 
from the judgment-seat. Pilgrims ascend it only on their 
knees. It is steep ; and, at the summit is a chapel, reported 
to be full of relics - into which they peep through some iron 
bars, and then come down again, by one of two side stair- 
cases, which are not sacred, and may be walked on. 

On Good Friday, there were, on a moderate computation, 
a. hundred people, slowly shuffling up these stairs, on their 
knees, at one time • while others, who were going up, or had 
come down — and a few who had done both, and were going 
up again for the second time — stood loitering in the porch be- 
Low, where an old gentleman in a sort of watch-box, rattled a 
tin canister, with a slit in the top, incessantly, to remind them 
that he took the money. The majority were country-people, 
male and female. There were four or five Jesuit priests, 
however, and some half-dozen well dressed women. A whole 
school of boys, twenty at least, were about half-way up— 
evidently enjoying it very much. They were all wedged to- 
gether, pretty closely ; but the rest of the company gave the 
boys as wide a berth as possible, in consequence of their be- 
traying some recklessness in the management of their boots. 

I never in my life, saw anything at once so ridiculous, and 
so unpleasant, as this sight — ridiculous in the absurd inci- 
dents inseparable from it j and unpleasant in its senseless and 
unmeaning degradation, There are two steps to begin with, 



PICTURES FROM ITALY 



553 



and then a rather broad landing. The more rigid climbers 
went along this landing on their knees, as well as up the 
stairs j and the figures they cut, in their shuffling progress . 
over the level surface, no description can paint. Then, to 
see them watch their opportunity from the porch, and cut in 
where there was a place next the wall ! And to see one man 
with an umbrella (brought on purpose, for it was a fine day) 
hoisting himself, unlawfully, from stair to stair ! And to ob- 
serve a demure lady of fifty-five or so, . looking back, every 
now and then, to assure herself that her legs were properly 
disposed ! 

There were such odd differences in the speed of different 
people, too. Some got on as if they were doing a match 
against time ; others stopped to say a prayer on every step. 
This man touched every stair with his forehead, and kissed 
it -; that man scratched his head all the way. The boys got 
on brilliantly, and were up and down again before the old 
lady had accomplished her half-dozen stairs. But most of 
the jDenitents came down, very sprightly and fresh, as having 
done a real good substantial deed which it would take a good 
deal of sin to counterbalance ; and the old gentleman in 
the watch-box was down upon them with his canister while 
they were in this humor, I promise yon. 

As if such a progress were not in its nature inevitably 
droll enough, there lay, on the top of the stairs, a wooden 
figure. on a crucifix, resting on a sort of great iron saucer: so 
rickety and unsteady, that whenever an enthusiastic person 
kissed the figure, with more than usual devotion, or threw a 
coin into the saucer, with more than common readiness (for 
it served in this respect as a second or supplementary canis- 
ter), it gave a great leap and rattle, and nearly shook the at- 
tendant lamp out : horribly frightening the people further 
down, and throwing the guilty party into unspeakable embar- 
rassment. 

On Easter Sunday, as well as on the preceding Thursday, 
the Pope bestows his benediction on the people, from the 
balcony in front of St. Peter's. This Easter Sunday was a 
day so bright and blue : so cloudless, balmy, wonderfully 
bright : that all the previous bad weather vanished from the 
recollection in a moment. I had seen the Thursday's Bene- 
diction dropping damply on some hundreds of umbrellas, but 
there was not a sparkle then, in all the hundred fountains -of 
Rome— such fountains as they are .'-—and on this Sunday 



S54. 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



morning they were running diamonds. The miles of misera* 
ble streets through which we drove (compelled to a certain 
course by the Pope's dragoons : the Roman police on 
such occasions) were so full of color, that nothing in them 
was capable of wearing a faded aspect. The common peo- 
ple came out in their gayest dresses ; the richer people in 
their smartest vehicles ; Cardinals rattled to the church of 
the Poor Fishermen in their state carriages ; shabby magnifi- 
cence flaunted its thread-bare liveries and tarnished cocked 
hats, in the sun ; and every coach in Rome was put in requi- 
sition for the Great Piazza of St. Peter's. 

One hundred and fifty thousand people were there at least ! 
Yet there was ample room. How many carriages were there 
I don't know ; yet there was room for them too, and to spare. 
The great steps of the church were densely crowded. There 
were many of the Contadini, from Albano (who delight in 
red), in that part of the square, and the mingling of bright 
colors in the crowd was beautiful. 'Below the steps the troops 
were ranged. In the magnificent proportions of the place 
they looked like a bed of flowers. Sulky Romans, lively 
peasants from the neighboring country, groups of pilgrims 
from distant parts of Italy, sight-seeing foreigners of all na- 
tions, made a murmur in the clear air, like so many insects; 
and high above them all, plashing and bubbling, and making 
rainbow colors in the light, the two delicious fountains welled 
and tumbled bountifully. 

A kind of bright carpet was hung over the front of the 
balcony ; and the sides of the great window were bedecked 
with crimson drapery. An awning was stretched, too, over 
the top, to screen the old man from the hot rays of the sun. 
As noon approached, all eyes were turned up to this window. 
In due time, the chair was seen approaching to the front, with 
the gigantic fans of peacock's feathers, close behind. The 
doll within it (for the balcony is very high) then rose up, and 
stretched out its tiny arms, while all the male spectators in 
the square uncovered, and some, but not by any means the 
greater part, kneeled down. The guns upon the ramparts of 
the Castle of St. Angelo proclaimed, next moment, that the 
benediction was given ; drums beat • trumpets sounded ; arms 
clashed \ and the great mass below, suddenly breaking into 
smaller heaps, and scattering here and there in rills, was 
stirred like particolored sand. 

What a bright noon it was, as we rode awav ! The Tiber 



PIC TURES FR OM IT A LY. 555 

was no longer yellow, but blue. There was a blush on the 
old bridges, that made them fresh and hale again. The Pan- 
theon, with its majestic front, all seamed and furrowed like 
an old face, had summer light upon its battered walls. Every 
squalid and desolate hut in the Eternal City (bear witness 
every grim old palace, to the filth and misery of the plebeian 
neighbor that elbows it, as certain as Time has laid its grip 
on its patrician head !) was fresh and new with some ray of 
the sun. The very prison in the crowded street, a whirl of 
carriages and people, had some stray sense of the day, drop- 
ping through its chinks and crevices : and dismal prisoners 
who could not wind their faces round the barricading of the 
blocked-tip windows, stretched out their hands, and clinging 
to the rusty bars, turned them towards the overflowing street : 
as if it were a cheerful fire, and could be shared in, that way. 

But, when the night came on, without a cloud to dim the 
full moon, what a sight it was to see the Great Square 
full once more, and the whole church, from the cioss to the 
ground, lighted with innumerable lanterns, tracing out the 
architecture, and winking and shining all round the colonnade 
of the piazza ! And what a sense of exultation, joy, delight, 
it was, when the great bell struck half-past seven — on the in- 
stant — to behold one bright red mass of fire, soar gallantly 
from the top of the cupola to the extremest summit of the 
cross, and the moment it leaped into its place, become the 
signal of a bursting out of countless lights, as great, and red, 
and blazing as itself, from every part of the gigantic church ; 
so that every cornice, capital, and smallest ornament of stone, 
expressed itself in fire : and the black solid groundwork of the 
enormous dome seemed to grow transparent as an eggshell ! 

A train of gunpowder, an electric chain — nothing could 
be fired, more suddenly and swiftly, than this second illumin- 
ation; and when we had got away, and gone upon a distant 
height, and looked towards it two hours afterwards, there it 
still stood, shining and glittering in the calm night like a 
jewel ! Not a line of its proportions wanting ; not an angle 
blunted ; not an atom of its radiance lost. 

The next night — Easter Monday — there was a great dis- 
play of fireworks from the Castle of St. Angelo. We hired 
a room in an opposite house, and made our way, to our 
places, in good time, through a dense mob of people choking 
up the square in front, and all the avenues, leading to it : and 
so loading the bridge by which the castle is approached, thaf 



e 5 6 PlC Tl T KES FROM 1 7 A L V. 

it seemed ready to sink into the rapid Tiber below. There 
are statues on this bridge (execrable works) and, among 
them, great vessels full of burning tow were placed : glaring 
strangely on the faces of the crowd, and not less strangely 
on the stone counterfeits above them. 

The show began with a tremendous discharge of cannon ; 
and then, for twenty minutes or half an hour, the whole 
castle was one incessant sheet of fire, and labyrinth of blaz^ 
ing wheels of every color, size, and speed : while rockets 
streamed into the sky, not by ones or twos, or scores, but 
hundreds at a time. The concluding burst— the Girandola 
— was like the blowing up into the air of the whole' mas- 
sive castle, without smoke or dust. 

In half an hour afterwards, the immense concourse had 
dispersed ; the moon was looking calmly down upon her 
wrinkled image in the river ; and half-a-dozen men and boys, 
with bits of lighted candle in their hands : moving here and 
there, in search of anything worth having, that might have 
been dropped in the press : had the whole scene to them- 
selves. 

By way of contrast we rode out into old ruined Rome, 
after all this firing and booming, to take our leave of the 
Coliseum. I had seen it by moonlight before (I could never 
get through a day without going back to it), but its tremen- 
dous solitude that night is past all telling. The ghostly 
pillars in the Forum ; the Triumphal Arches of Old Em- 
perors ; those enormous masses of ruins which were once their 
palaces ; the grass grown mounds, that mark the graves of 
ruined temples ; the stones of the Via Sacra, smooth with 
the tread of feet in ancient Rome - even these were dimmed, 
in their transcendent melancholy, by the dark ghost of its 
bloody holidays, erect and grim ; haunting the old scene ; 
despoiled by pillaging Popes and fighting Princes, but not 
laid ; wringing wild hands of weed, and grass, and bramble ; 
and lamenting to the night in every gap and broken arch— 
the shadow of its awful self, immovable ! 

As we lay down on the grass of the Campagna, next day, 
on our way to' Florence, hearing the larks sing, we saw that 
a little wooden cross had been erected on the spot where the 
poor .Pilgrim Countess was murdered. So, we piled some 
loose stones about it, as the beginning of a mound to her 
memory, and wondered if we should ever rest there again, 
and look back at Rome. 



♦ PICTURES FROM ITALY. 557 



A RAPID DIORAMA. 

We are bound for Naples ! And we cross the threshold 
of- the Eternal City at yonder gate, the Gate of San Giovanni 
Laterano, where the two last objects that attract the notice 
of a departing visitor, and the two first objects that attract 
the notice of an arriving one, are a proud church and a 
decaying ruin — good emblems of Rome. 

Our way lies over the Campagna, which looks more 
solemn on a bright blue day like this, than beneath a darker 
sky ; the great extent of ruin being plainer to the eye: and 
the sunshine through the arches of the broken aqueducts, 



showing other broken arches shining through them in the 
melancholy distance. When we have traversed it, and look 
back from Albano, its dark undulating surface lies below us 
like a stagnant lake, or like a broad dull Lethe flowing round 1 
the walls of Rome, and separating it from all the world \ 
How often have the Legions, in triumphant march, gone glit - 
tering across that purple waste, so silent and unpeopled now ! 
How often has the train of captives looked, with sinking 
hearts, upon the distant city, and beheld its population pour- 
ing out, to hail the return of their conqueror ! What riot, 
sensuality and murder, have run mad in the vast palaces now 
heaps of brick and shattered marble! What glare of fires, 
and the roar of popular tumult, and wail of pestilence and 
famine, have come sweeping over the . wild plain where noth- 
ing is now heard but the wind, and where the solitary lizards 
gambol unmolested in the sun ! 

The train of wine-carts going into Rome, each driven by a 
shaggy peasant reclining beneath a little gipsy-fashioned can- 
opy of sheepskin, is ended now, and we go toiling up into a 
higher country where there are trees. The next day brings 
us on the Pontine Marshes, wearily flat and lonesome, and 
overgrown with brushwood, and swamped with water, but 
with a fine road made across them, shaded by a long, long 
avenue. Here and there, we pass a solitary guard-house ; 
here and there a hovel, deserted, and walled up. Some 
herdsmen loiter on the banks of the stream beside the road, 
and sometimes a flat-bottomed boat, towed bv a man. comes 



553 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



rippling idly along it. A horseman passes occasionally, carry- 
ing a long gun cross-wise on the saddle before him, and at- 
tended by fierce dogs ; but there is nothing else astir save 
the wind and the shadows, until we come in sight of Ter- 
racina. 

How blue and bright the sea, rolling below the windows 
of the-inn so famous in robber stories ! How picturesque 
the great crags and points of rock overhanging to-morrow's 
narrow road, where galley-slaves are working in the quarries 
above, and the sentinels who guard them lounge on the sea- 
shore ! All night there is the murmur of the sea beneath the 
stars j and, in the morning, just at daybreak, the prospect sud- 
denly- becoming expanded, as if by a miracle, reveals — in the 
far distance, across the sea there ! — Naples with its islands, 
and Vesuvius spouting fire ! Within a quarter of an hour, the 
whole is gone as if it were a vision in the clouds, and there is 
nothing but the sea and sky. 

The Neapolitan frontier crossed, after two hours' travel- 
ling ; and the hungriest of soldiers and custom-house officers 
with difficulty appeased ; we enter, by a gateless portal, into 
the first Neapolitan town — Fondi. Take note of Fondi, in 
the name of all that is wretched and beggarly. 

A filthy channel of mud and refuse meanders down the 
centre of the miserable streets, fed by obscene rivulets that 
trickle from the abject houses. . There is not a door, a win- 
dow, or a shutter ; not a roof, a wall, a post, or a pillar, in all 
Fondi, but is decayed, and crazy, and rotting away. The 
wretched history of the town, with all its sieges and pillages 
by Barbarossa and the rest, might havf been acted last year. 
How the gaunt dogs that sneak about the miserable streets, 
come to be alive, and undevoiired by the people, is one of the 
enigmas of the world. 

A hollow-cheeked and scowling people they are ! All 
beggars ; but that's nothing. Look at them as they gather 
round. Some, are too indolent to come downstairs, or are 
too wisely mistrustful of the stairs, perhaps, to venture : so 
stretch out their lean hands from upper windows, and howl • 
others, come flocking about us, fighting and jostling one an- 
other, and demanding, incessantly, charity for the love of 
God, charity for the love of the Blessed Virgin, charity for 
the love of all the Saints. A group of miserable children, 
almost naked, screaming forth the same petition, discover 
that they can see themselves reflected in the varnish of the 



PICTURES FROM IT ALT. 559 

carriage, and begin to dance and make grimaces, that they 
may have the pleasure of seeing their antics repeated in this 
mirror. A crippled idiot, in the act of striking one of ihem 
who drowns his clamorous demand for charity, observes his 
angry counterpart in the panel, stops short, and thrusting 
out his tongue, begins to wag his head and chatter. The 
shrill cry raised a! this awakens half-a-dozen wild creatures 
wrapped in frowsy brown cloaks, who are lying on the church 
steps with pots and pans for sale. These, scrambling up, 
approach, and beg defiantly. " I am hungry. Give me some- 
thing. Listen to me me, Signor. 1 am hungry ! " Then, a 
ghastly old woman, fearful of being too late, comes hobbling 
down the street, stretching out one hand, and scratching her- 
self all the way with the other, and screaming, long before she 
can be heard, " Charity, charity ! I'll go and pray for you 
directly, beautiful lady, if you'll give me charity ! " Lastly, 
the members of a brotherhood for burying the dead : hideously 
masked, and attired in shabby black robes, white at the 
skirts, with the splashes of many muddy winters : escorted 
by a dirty priest, and a congenial cross-bearer : come hurry- 
ing past. Surrounded by this motley concourse, we move out 
of Fondi : bad bright eyes glaring at us, out of the darkness 
of every crazy tenement, like glistening fragments of its filth, 
and putrefaction. 

A noble-mountain-pass, with the ruins of a fort on a strong 
eminence, traditionally called the Fort of Fra Diavolo ; the 
old town of Itri, like a device in pastry, built up, almost per- 
pendicularly, on a hill, and approached by long steep flights 
of steps ; beautiful Mola di Gaeta, whose wines, likes those 
of Albano, have degenerated since the days of Horace, or his 
taste for wine was bad: which is not likely of one who enjoyed 
it so much, and extolled it so well ; another night upon the 
road at St. Agata ; a rest next day at Capua, which is pictur- 
esque, but hardly so seductive to a traveller now, as the sol- 
diers of Praetorian Rome were wont to find the ancient city 
of that name ; a flat road among vines festooned and looped 
from tree to tree ; and Mount Vesuvius close at hand at last i 
— its cone and summit whitened with snow • and its smoke 
hanging over it, in the heavy atmosphere of the day, like a 
dense cloud. So we go, rattling down hill, into Naples. 

A funeral is coming up the street, towards us. The body, 
on an open bier, borne on a kind of palanquin, covered with 
a gray cloth of crimson and gold. The mourners, in white 



5 6 ° 



PIC TURES FR OM 1 TAL \ . 



i^owns and masks. If there be death abroad, life is we'll re- 
presented too; for all Naples would seem to be out of doors, 
and tearing to and fro in carriages. Some of these, the com- 
mon Vetturino vehicles, are drawn by three horses abreast. 
decked with smart trappings and great abundance of brazen 
ornament, and always going very fast. Not that their loads 
are light ; for the smallest of them has at least six people in- 
side; four in front, four or five more hanging on behind, and 
two or three more, in a net or bag below the axle-tree, where 
they lie half-suffocated with mud and dust. Exhibitors of 
Punch, buffo singers with guitars, reciters of poetry, reciters 
of stories, a row of cheap exhibitions with clowns and show- 
men, drums, and trumpets, painted cloths representing the 
wonders within, and admiring crowds assembled without, 
assist the whirl and bustle. Ragged lazzaroni lie asleep in 
doorways, archways, and kennels ; the gentry, gayly dressed, 
are clashing up and down in carriages on the Chiaja, or walk- 
ing in the Public Gardens ; and quiet letter-writers, perched be- 
hind their little desks and inkstands under the Portico of the 
Great Theatre of San Carlo, in the public street, are waiting 
•for clients. 

Here is a galley-slave in chains, who wants a letter written 
to a friend. He approaches a clerkly-looking man, sitting 
under the corner arch, and makes his bargain. He has ob- 
tained permission of the sentinel who guards him : who 
stands near, leaning against the wall and cracking nuts. 
The galley-slave dictates in the ear of the letter-writer, what 
he desires to say ; and as he can't read writing, looks intently 
in his face, to read there whether he sets down faithfully what 
he is told. After a time, the galley-slave becomes discursive 
—incoherent. The secretary pauses and rubs his chin. The 
galley-slave is voluble and energetic. The secretary, at length, 
catches the idea, and with the air of a man who knows how- 
to word it, sets it down ; stopping, now and then, to glance 
back at his text admiringly. The galley-slave is silent. The 
soldier stoically cracks his nuts. Is there anything more to 
say ? inquires the letter-writer. No more. Then listen, friend 
of mine. He reads it through. The galley-slave is quite en 
chanted. It is folded, and addressed, and given to him, and 
he pays the fee, The . secretary falls back indolently in his 
chair, and takes a book. The galley-slave gathers up an 
empty sack. The sentinel throws away a handful of nut- 
shells, shoulders his muskei, and away they go together. 



PICTURKS FROM ITAL Y. 56 , 

Why do the beggars rap their chins constantly, with their 
right hands, when you look at them ? Everything is done in 
pantomime in Naples, and that is the conventional sign for 
hunger. A man who is quarrelling with another, yonder, lays 
the palm of his right hand on the back of his left, and shakes 
the two thumbs — expressive of a donkey's ears — whereat his 
adversary is goaded to desperation. Two people bargaining 
for fish, the buyer empties an imaginary waistcoat pocket 
when he is told the price, and walks away without a word : 
having thoroughly conveyed to the seller that he considers it 
too dear. Two people in carriages, meeting, one touches his 
lips, twice or thrice, holding up the five fingers of his right 
hand, and gives a horizontal cut in the air with the palm. 
The other nods briskly, and goes his way. He has been in- 
vited to a friendly dinner at half-past five o'clock, and will 
certainly come. 

All over Italy, a peculiar shake of the right hand from the 
wrist, with the fore-finger stretched out, expresses a negative 
— the only negative beggars will ever understand. But, in 
Naples, those five fingers are a copious language. 

All this, and every other kind of out-door life and stir, and 
maccaroni-eating at sunset, and flower-selling all day long, 
and begging and stealing everywhere and at all hours, you 
see upon the bright sea-shore, where the waves of the bay 
sparkle merrily. But, lovers and hunters of the picturesque;, 
let us not keep too studiously out of view the miserable de- 
pravity, degradation, and wretchedness, with which this ga f 
Neapolitan life is inseparably associated ! It is not well t:> 
find Saint Giles's so repulsive, and the Porta Capuana so at- 
tractive. A pair of naked legs and a ragged red scarf, do 
not make all the difference between what is interesting and 
what is coarse and odious ? Painting and poetizing for ever, 
if you will, the beauties of this most beautiful and lovely spot 
of earth, let us, as our duty, try to associate a new picturesque 
with some faint recognition of man's destiny and capabilities ; 
more hopeful, I believe, among the ice and snow of the 
North Pole, than in the sun and bloom of Naples. 

Capri — once made odious by the deified beast Tiberius— 
Ischia, Procida, and the thousand distant beauties of the Bay, 
lie in the blue sea yonder, changing in the mist and sunshine 
twenty times a-day: now close at hand, now far off, now un- 
seen. The fairest < country in the world, is spread about us 
Whether we turn "towards the Miseno shore of tire splendid 



5 6 2 PIC TURES FROM IT A L V. 

watery amphitheatre, and go by the Giotto of Posilipo to the 
Grotto del Cane and away to Baise : or take the other way, 
towards Vesuvius and Sorrento, it is one succession of delights. 
In the last-named direction, where, over doors and archways, 
there are countless little images of San Gennaro, with his 
Canute's hand stretched out, to check the fury of the Burning 
Mountain, we are carried pleasantly, by a railroad on the 
beautiful Sea Beach, past the town of Torre del Greco, built 
upon the ashes of the former town destroyed by an eruption 
of Vesuvius, within a hundred years ; and past the flat-roofed 
houses, granaries, and maccaroni manufactories ; to Castel-a- 
Mare, with its ruined castle, now inhabited by fishermen, 
standing in the sea upon a heap of rocks. Here, the railroad 
terminates ; but, hence we may ride on, by an unbroken suc- 
cession of enchanting bays, and beautiful scenery, sloping 
from the highest summit of Saint Angelo, the highest neigh- 
boring mountain, down to the water's edge — among vineyards, 
olive-trees, gardens of oranges and lemons, orchards, heaped 
up rocks, green gorges in the hills — and by the bases of snow- 
covered heights, and through small towns with handsome, 
dark-haired women at the doors — and pass delicious summer 
villas— to Sorrento, where the Poet Tasso drew his inspiration 
from the beauty surrounding him. Returning, we may climb 
heights above Castel-a-Mare, and looking down among the 
boughs and leaves, see the crisp water glistening in the sun ; 
and clusters of white houses^ in distant Naples, dwindling, in 
the great extent of prospect, down to dice. The coming back 
to the city, by the beach again, at sunset : with the glowing 
sea on one side, and the darkening mountain, with its smoke 
and flame, upon the other : is a sublime conclusion to the 
glory of the day. 

That church by the Porta Capuana — near the old fisher- 
market in the dirtiest quarter of dirty Naples, where the revolt 
of Massaniello began — is memorable for having been the 
scene of one of his earliest proclamations to the people, and 
is particularly remarkable for nothing else,, unless it be its 
waxen and bejewelled Saint in a glass case, with two odd 
hands ; or the enormous number of beggars who are constant- 
ly rapping their chins there, like a battery of castanets. The 
cathedral with the beautiful door, and the columns of African 
and Egyptian granite that once ornamented the temple of 
Apollo, contains the famous sacred blood of San Gennaro 
or Januarius : which is preserved in two phials in a silver tabe.r« 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 



5 6 3 



nacle, and miraculously liquifies three times a-year, to the 
great admiration of the people. At the same moment, the 
stone (distant some miles) where the Saint suffered martyr- 
dom, becomes faintly red. It is said that the officiating priests 
turn faintly red also,- sometimes, when these miracles occur. 

The old. old men who live in hovels at the entrance of 
these ancient catacombs, and who, in their age and infirmity, 
seem waiting here, to be buried themselves, are members of a 
curious body, called the Royal Hospital, who are the official 
attendants at funerals. Two of these old spectres totter 
away, with lighted tapers, to show the caverns of death — as 
unconcerned as if they were immortal. They were used as 
burying-places for three hundred years ; and, in one part, is a 
large pit full of skulls and bones, said to be the sad remains 
of a great mortality occasioned by a plague. In the rest 
there is nothing but dust. They consist, chiefly, of great wide 
corridors and labyrinths, hewn out of the rock. At the end 
of some of these long passages, are unexpected glimpses of 
the daylight, shining down from above. It looks as ghastly 
and as strange : among the torches, and the dust, and the 
dark vaults : as if it, too, were dead and buried. 

The present burial-place lies out yonder, on a hill between 
the city and Vesuvius. The old Campo Santo with its three 
hundred and sixty-five pits, is only used for those who die in 
hospitals, and prisons, and are unclaimed by their friends. 
The graceful new cemetery, at no great distance from it, 
though yet unfinished, has already many graves among its 
shrubs and flowers, and airy colonnades. It might be rea- 
sonably objected elsewhere, that some of the tombs are mere- 
tricious and too fanciful ; but the general brightness seems 
to justify it here ; and Mount Vesuvius, separated from them 
by a lovely slope of ground, exalts and saddens the scene. 

If it be solemn to behold from this new City of the Dead, 
with its dark smoke hanging in the clear skv, how much more 
awful and impressive is it, viewed from the ghostly ruins of 
Herculaneum and Pompeii ! 

Stand at the bottom of the great market-place of Pompeii, 
and look up the silent streets, through the ruined temples of 
Jupiter and Isis, over the broken houses with their inmost 
sanctuaries open to the day, away to Mount Vesuvius, bright 
and snowy in the peaceful distance ; and lose all count of 
time, and heed of other things, in the strange and melancholy 
sensation of .seeing the Destroyed and the Destroyer making 



5 6 4 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



this quiet picture in the sun. Then, ramble on, and see, at 
every turn, the little familiar tokens of human habitation and 
every-day pursuits ; the chafing of the bucket-rope in the 
stone rim of the exhausted well ; the track of carriage-wheels 
in the pavement of the street ; the marks of drinking-vessels 
on the stone counter of the wine-shop ; the amphorae in pri- 
vate cellars, stored away so many hundred years ago,- and un- 
disturbed to this hour — all rendering the solitude and deadly 
lonesomeness of the place, ten thousand times more solemn, 
than if the volcano, in its fury, had swept the city from the 
earth, and sunk it in the bottom of the sea. 

After it was shaken by the earthquake which preceded the 
eruption, workmen were employed in shaping out, in stone, 
new ornaments for temples and other buildings that had 
suffered. Here lies their work, outside the city gate, as if 
they would return to-morrow. 

In the cellar of Diomede's house, where certain skeletons 
were found huddled together, close to the door, the impression 
of their bodies on the ashes, hardened with the ashes, and 
became stamped and fixed there, after they had shrunk, in- 
side, to scanty bones. So, in the theatre of Herculaneum, a 
comic mask, floating on the stream when it was hot and liquid, 
stamped its mimic features in it as it hardened into stone ; 
and now, it turns upon the stranger the fantastic look it turned 
upon the audiences in that same theatre two thousand yeais 
ago. 

Next to the wonder of going up and down the streets, and 
in and out of the houses, and traversing the secret chambers 
of the temples of a religion that has vanished from the earth, 
and finding so many fresh traces of remote antiquity : as if 
the co'urse of Time had been stopped after this desolation, 
and there had been no nights and days, months, years, and 
centuries, since : nothing is more impressive and terrible than 
the many evidences of the searching nature of the ashes, as 
bespeaking their irresistible power, and the impossibility of 
escaping them. In the wine-cellars, they forced their way 
into the earthen vessels ; displacing the wine and choking 
them, to the brim, with dust. In the tombs, they forced the 
ashes of the dead from the funeral urns, and rained new ruin 
even into them. The mouths, and eyes, and skulls of all the 
skeletons, were stuffed with this terrible hail. In Herculaneum 
where the flood was of a different and a heavier kind, it rolled 
in, like a sea. Imagine a deluge of ~water turned to marble 
at its height— and that is what is called " the lava " here. 



PIC TURES FROM ITAL Y. 565 

Some workmen were digging the gloomy well on the brink 
of which we now stand, looking down when they came on 
some of the stone benches of the theatre— those steps (for 
such they seem) at the bottom of the excavation — and found 
the buried city of Herculaneum. Presently going down, with 
lighted torches, we are perplexed by great walls of monstrous 
thickness, rising up between the benches, shutting out the 
stage, obtruding their shapeless forms in absurd places, con- 
fusing the whole plan, and making it a disordered dream. We 
cannot, at first, believe, or picture to ourselves, that This came 
rolling in, and drowned the city ; and that all that is not here, 
has been cut away, by the axe, like solid stone. But this per 
ceived and understood, the horror and oppression of its pres- 
ence are indescribable. " . 

Many of the paintings on the walls in the roofless cham- 
bers of both cities, or carefully removed to the museum at 
Naples, are as fresh and plain, as if they had been executed 
yesterday. Here are subjects of still life, as provisions, dead 
game, bottles, glasses, and the like; familiar classical stories, 
or mythological fables, always forcibly and plainly told ; con- 
ceits of cupids, quarrelling, sporting, working at trades; 
theatrical rehearsals ; poets reading their productions to their 
friends ; inscriptions chalked upon the walls ; political squibs, 
advertisements, rough drawings by schoolboys ; everything to 
people and restore the ancient cities, in the fancy of their won 
dering visitor. Furniture, too, you see, of every kind — lamps, 
tables, couches; vessels for eating, drinking, and cooking; 
workmen's tools, surgical instruments, tickets for the theatre, 
pieces of money, personal ornaments, bunches of keys found 
clenched in the grasp of skeletons, helmets of guards and 
warriors; little household bells, yet musical with their old do- 
mestic tones. 

The least among these objects, lends its aid to swell the 
interest of Vesuvius, and invest it with a perfect fascination. 
The looking, from either ruined city, into the neighboring 
grounds overgrown with beautiful vines and luxuriant tree:; . 
and remembering that house upon house, temple on temple, 
building after building, and street after street are still lying 
underneath the roots of all the quiet cultivation, waiting to be 
turned up to the light of day ; is something so wonderful, so full 
of mystery, so captivating to the imagination, that one would 
think it would be paramount, and yield to nothing else. To 
nothing but Vesuvius; but the mountain is the genius of the 



^66 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

scene. From every indication of the ruin it has worked, we look, 
again, with an absorbing interest to where its smoke is rising 
up into the sky. It is beyond us, as we tread the ruined 
streets : above us, as we stand upon the ruined walls ; we fol- 
low it through every vista of broken columns, as we wander 
through the empty court-yards of the houses • and through 
the garlanclings and interfacings of every wanton vine. Turn- 
ing away to Passtum yonder, to see the awful structures built, 
the least aged of them, hundreds of years before the birth of 
Christ, and standing yet, erect in lonely majesty, upon the 
wild, malaria-blighted plain — we watch Vesuvius as it disap- 
pears from the prospect, and watch for it again, on our return, 
with the same thrill of interest : as the doom and destiny of 
all this beautiful country, biding its terrible time. 

It is very warm in the sun, on this earl)* spring-day, when 
we return from Paestum, but very cold in the shade : insomuch, 
that although we may lunch, pleasantly, at noon, in the open 
air, by the gate of Pompeii, the neighboring rivulet supplies 
thick ice for our wine. But, the sun is shining brightly ; there 
is not a cloud or speck of vapor in the whole blue sky, look- 
ing down upon the bay of Naples \ and the moon will be at 
rhe full to-night. No matter that the snow and ice lie thick 
upon the summit of Vesuvius, or that we have been on foot 
Ult day at Pompeii, or that croakers maintain that strangers 
should not be on the mountain by night, in such an unusual 
season. Let us take advantage of the fine weather ; make the 
best of our way to Resina. the little village at the foot of the 
mountain; prepare ourselves, as well as we can, on so short 
a notice, at the guide's house ) ascend at once, and have sun- 
set half-way up, noon-light at the top, and midnight to come 
down in ! 

At four o'clock in the afternoon, there is a terrible uproar 
in the little stable-yard of Signior Salvatore, the recognized 
head-guide, with the gold band round his cap ; and thirty 
under-guides who are all scuffling and screaming at once, are 
preparing half-a-dozen saddled ponies, three litters, and some 
stout staves, for the journey. Even* one of the thirty, quar- 
rels with the other twenty-nine, and frightens the six ponies ; 
and as much of the village as can possibly squeeze itself into 
the little stable-yard, participates in the tumult, and gets trod^ 
den on by the cattle. 

After much violent skirmishing, and more noise than would 
suffice for the storming of Naples, the procession starts. The 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



S 6 7 



head-guide, who is liberally paid for all the attendants, rides 
a little in advance of the party ; the other thirty guides pro- 
ceed on foot. Eight go forward with the litters that are to be 
used by and by ; and the remaining two-and-twenty beg. 

We ascend, gradually, by stony lanes like rough broad 
flights of stairs, for some time. At length, we leave these, 
a id the vineyards on either side of them, and emerge upon a 
bleak bare region where the lava lies confusedly, in enormous 
rusty masses: as if the earth had been ploughed up by burn- 
ing thunderbolts. And now we halt to see the sun set. Ijhe 
change that falls upon the dreary region, and on the whole 
mountain, as its red light fades, and the night comes on — and 
the unutterable solemnity and dreariness that reign around, 
who that has witnessed it, can ever forget ! 

It was dark, when after winding, for some time, over the 
broken ground, we arrive at the foot of the cone : which is 
extremely steep, and seems to rise, almost perpendicularly, 
from the spot where we dismount. The only light is reflected 
from the snow, deep, hard, and white, with which the cone is 
covered. It is now intensely cold, and the air is piercing. 
The thirty-one have brought no torches, knowing that the 
moon will rise before we reach the top. Two of the litters 
are devoted to the two ladies ; the third, to a rather heavy 
gentleman from Naples, whose hospitality and good-nature 
have attached him to the expedition, and determined him to 
assist in doing the honors of the mountain. The rather heavy 
gentleman is carried by fifteen men ; each of the ladies by 
half-a-dozen. We who walk, make the best use of our staves ; 
and so the whole party begin to labor upward over the snow, 
— as if they were toiling to the summit of an antediluvian 
Twefth-cake. 

We are a long time toiling up ; and the head-guide looks 
oddly about him when one of the company — not an Italian 
though an habitue' of the mountain for many years : whom 
we will call, for our present purpose, Mr. Pickle of Portici — 
suggests that, as it is freezing hard, and the usual footing of 
ashes is covered by the snow and ice, it will surely be difficult 
to descend. But the sight of the litters above, tilting up and 
down, and jerking from this side to that, as the bearers com 
tinually slip and tumble, diverts our attention ; more especi- 
ally as the whole length of the rather heavy gentleman, is, at 
that moment, presented to us alarmingly foreshortened, with 
his head downwards. 



5 68 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

The rising of the moon soon afterwards, revives the flag- 
ging spirits of the bearers. Stimulating each other with their 
usual watchword, " Courage, friend ! It is to eatmaccaroni !" 
they press on, gallantly, for the summit. 

From tinging the top of the snow above us, with a band 
of light, and pouring it in a stream through the valley below, 
while we have been ascending in the dark,, the moon soon 
lights the whole white mountain side, and the broad sea down 
below, and tiny Naples in the distance, and every village in 
the country round. The whole prospect is in this lovely state, 
when we come upon the platform on the mountain-top— the 
region of Fire — an exhausted crater formed of great masses 
of gigantic cinders, like blocks of stone from some tremendous 
water-fall, burnt up ; from every chink and crevice of which, 
hot, sulphurous smoke is pouring out: while, from another 
conical-shaped hill, the present crater, rising abruptly from 
this platform at the end, great sheets of fire are streaming 
forth : reddening the night with flame, blackening it with 
smoke, and spotting it with red-hot stones and cinders, that 
fly up into the air like feathers, and fall down like lead. What 
words can paint the gloom and grandeur of this scene ! 

The broken ground ; the smoke ; the sense of suffocation 
from the sulphur • the fear of falling down through the crevices 
in the yawnlirg ground; the stopping, every now and then, 
for somebody who is missing in the dark (for the dense smoke 
now obscures the moon) ; the intolerable noise of the thirty ; 
and the hoarse roaring of the mountain ; make it a scene of 
such confusion, at the same time, that we reel again. But, 
dragging the ladies through it. and across another exhausted 
crater to the foot of the present Volcano, we approach close 
to it on the windy side, and then sit down among the hot ashes 
at its foot, and look up in silence ; faintly estimating the 
action that is going on within, from its being full a hundred 
feet higher, at this minute, than it was six weeks ago. 

There is something in the fire and roar, that generates an 
irresistible desire to get nearer to it. We cannot rest long, 
without starting off, two of us, on our hands and knees, acom- 
panied by the head guide, to climb to the brim of the flaming 
crater, and try to look in. Meanwhile, the thirty yell, as with 
one voice, that it is a dangerous proceeding, and call to us to 
Come back : frightening the rest of the party out of their wits. 

What with their noise, and what with the trembling of the 
thin crust of ground, that seems about to open underneath our 



PICTURES FROM ITAL V. 569 

feet and plunge us in the burning gulf below (which is the 
real danger, if there be any) ; and what with the flashing oi 
the fire in our faces, and the shower of red-hot ashes that 1- 
raining down, and the choking smoke and sulphur; we may well 
feel giddy and irrational, like drunken men. But, we contrive 
to - climb up to. the brim, and look down, for a, moment, into 
the Hell oi boiling fire below. Then, we all three come ■roll- 
ing: down ; blackened and singed, and scorched, and hot, and 
giddy : and each with his dress alight in half-a-dozen places. 

You have read, a thousand times, that the usual way of de- 
scending, is, by sliding down the ashes : which, forming a 
gradually-increasing ledge below the feet, prevent too rapid a 
descent. But, when we have crossed the two exhausted 
craters on our way back, and are come to this precipitous 
place, there is (as Mr. Pickle has foretold) no vestige of ashes 
to be seen ; the whole being a smooth sheet of ice. 

In this dilemma, ten or a dozen of the guides cautiously 
Join hands, and make a chain of men ; of whom the foremost 
"beat, as well as they can, a rough track with their sticks, down 
which we prepare to follow. The way being fearfully steep, 
and none of the party: even of the thirty: being able to keep 
their feet for six paces together, the ladies are taken out of 
their litters, and placed, each between two careful persons; 
-while others of the thirty hold by their skirts, to prevent their 
falling forward— a necessary precaution, tending to the im- 
mediate and hopeless dilapidation of their apparel. The rather 
heavy gentleman is abjured to leave his litter too, and be es- 
corted in a similar manner ; but he resolves to be brought 
down as he was brought up, on the principle that his fifteen 
bearers are not likely to tumble all at once, and that he. is 
safer so, than trusting to his own legs. 

1 In this order, we begin the descent : sometimes on foot, 
sometimes shuffling on the ice : always proceeding much more 
quietly and slowly, than on our upward way : and constantly 
alarmed by the falling among us of somebody from behind, 
who endangers the footing of the whole party, and clings per- 
tinaciously to anybody's ankles. It is impossible for the litter 
to be in advance, too, as the track has to be made ; and its 
appearance behind us, overhead — with some one or other of 
the bearers always down, and the rather heavy gentleman with 
his legs always in the air — is very threatening and frightful. 
We have gone on thus, a very little way. painfully and anxiously, 
but quite merrily, and regarding it as a great success — and 



67 o PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

have all fallen several times, and have all been stopped, some 
now or other, as we were sliding away — when Mr. Pickle ot 
Portici, in the act of remarking on these uncommon circum- 
stances as quite beyond his experience, stumbles, falls, disen- 
gages himself, with quick presence of mind, from those about 
him, plunges away head foremost, and rolls, over and over, 
down the whole surface of the cone ! 

Sickening as it is to look, and be so powerless to help him, 
I see him there, in the moonlight — I have had such a dream 
often — skimming over the white ice, like a cannon-ball. 
Almost at the same moment, there is a cry from behind ; and 
a man who has carried a light basket of spare cloaks on his 
head, comes rolling past, at the same frightful speed, closely 
followed by a boy. At this climax of the chapter of accidents, 
the remaining eight-and-twenty vociferate to that degree, that 
a pack of wolves would be music to them ! 

Giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is Pickle 
of Portici when we reach the place where we dismounted, and 
where the horses are waiting ; but, thank God, sound in limb ! 
And never are we likely to be more glad to see a man alive 
and on his feet, than to see him now — making light of it too, 
though sorely bruised and in great pain. The boy is brought 
into the Hermitage on the Mountain, while we are at supper, 
with his head tied up ; and the man is heard of some hours 
afterwards. He too is bruised and stunned, but has broken 
no bones ; the snow having, fortunately, covered all the larger 
blocks of rock and stones, and rendered them harmless. 

After a cheerful meal, and a good rest before a blazing 
fire, we again take horse, and continue our descent to Salva- 
tore's house — very slowly, by reason of our bruised friend being 
hardly able to keep the saddle, or endure the pain of motion. 
Though it is so late at night, or early in the morning, all the 
people of the village are waiting about the little stable-yard 
when we arrive, and looking up the road by which we are 
expected. Our appearance is hailed with a great clamor o f 
tongues, and a general sensation for which in our modesty we 
are somewhat at a loss to account, until turning into the yard, 
we find that one of a party of French gentlemen who were or 
the mountain at the same time is lying on some straw in the 
stable, with a broken limb : looking like Death, and suffering 
great torture • and that we were confidently supposed to have 
encountered some worse accident. 

So " well returned, and Heaven be praised ! " as the cheer- 



PIC TURES FR OM ITALY. 57* 

ful Vetturmo, who has borne us company all the way from 
Pisa, says, with all his heart ! And away with his ready 
horses, into sleeping Naples ! 

It wakes again to Policmelli and pickpockets, buffo sing- 
ers and beggars, rags, puppets, flowers, brightness, dirt, and 
universal degradation ; airing its Harlequin suit in the sun- 
shine, next day and every day; singing, starving, dancing, 
g iming, on the sea-shore ; and leaving all labor to the burning 
mountain, which is ever at its work. 

Our. English dilettanti would be very pathetic on the sub- 
ject of the national taste, if they could hear an Italian opera 
half as badly sung in England as we may hear the Foscari 
performed, to-night, in the splendid theatre of San Carlo. But, 
for astonishing truth and spirit in seizing and embodying the 
real life about it, the shabby little San Carlino Theatre — the 
rickety house one story high, with a staring picture outside : 
down among the drums and trumpets, and the tumblers, and 
the lady conjurer — is without a rival anywhere. 

There is one extraordinary feature in the real life of 
Naples, at which we may take a glance before we go— -the 
Lotteries. 

They prevail in most parts of Italy, but are particularly 
obvious, in their effects and influences, here. They are drawn 
every Saturday. They bring an immense revenue to the 
Government ; and diffuse a taste for gambling among the 
poorest of the poor, which is very comfortable to the coffeis 
of the State, and very ruinous to themselves. The lowest 
stake is one grain; less than a farthing. One hundred num- 
bers — from one to a hundred, inclusive — are put into a box. 
Five are drawn. Those are the prizes. I buy three numbers. 
If one of them come up, I win a small prize. If two, some 
hundreds of times my stake. If three, three thousand five 
hundred times my stake. I stake (or play as they call it) 
vvhat I can upon my numbers, and buy what numbers I please. 
The amount I play, I pay at the lottery office, where I pur- 
chase the ticket ; and it is stated on the ticket itself. 

Every lottery office keeps a printed book, an Universal 
Lottery Diviner, where every possible accident and circum- 
stance is provided for, and has a number against it. For in 
stance, let us take two carlini — about sevenpence. On our 
way to the lottery office, we run against a black man. When 
we get there, we say gravely, " The Diviner." It is handed 
over the counter, as a serious matter of business. We look at 



tfi 2 PICTURES FROM ITALY. 

black man. Such a number. " Give us that" We look at 
running against a person in the street. " Give us that." We 
look at the name of the street itself. " Give us that." Now, 
we have our three numbers. 

If the roof of the theatre of San Carlo were to fall in, so 
many people would play upon the numbers attached to such 
an accident in the Diviner, that the Government would soon 
close those numbers, and decline to run the risk of losing any 
more upon them. This often happens. Not long ago, when 
there was a fire in the King's Palace, there was such a des- 
perate run on fire, and king, and palace, that further stakes 
on the numbers attached to those words in the Golden Book 
weie forbidden Every accident or event, is supposed, by the 
ignorant populace, to be a revelation to the beholder, or party 
concerned, in connection with the lottery. Certain people 
who have a talent for dreaming fortunately, are much sought 
after ; and there are some priests who are constantly favored 
with visions of the lucky numbers. 

I heard of a horse running away with a man, and dashing 
him down, dead, at the corner of a street Pursuing the horse 
with incredible speed, was another man, who ran so fast, that 
he came up, immediately after the accident He threw him- 
self upon his knees beside the unfortunate rider, and clasped 
his hand with an expression of the wildest grief. " If you 
have life," he said, " speak one word to me ! If you have 
one gasp of breath left, mention your age for Heaven's saka, 
that I may play that number in the lottery." 

It is four o'clock in the afternoon, and we may go to see 
our lottery drawn. The ceremony takes place every Satur- 
day, in the Tribunale, or Court of Justice — this singular, 
earthy-smelling room, or gallery, as mouldy as an old cellar, 
and as damp as a dungeon. At the upper end is a platform, 
with a large horse-shoe table upon it ; and a President and 
Council sitting round — all Judges of the Law. The man on 
the little stool behind the President, is the Capo Lazzarone, a 
kind of tribune of the people, appointed on their behalf to see 
that all is fairly conducted : attended by a tew personal 
friends. A ragged, swarthy fellow he is ; with long matted 
hair hanging down all over his face : and covered, from head 
to foot, with most unquestionably genuine dirt. All the body 
of the room is filled with the commonest of the Neapolitan 
people : and between them and the platform, guarding the 
steps leading to the ,'atter, is a small body of soldiers. 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 5 73 

There is some delay in the arrival of the necessary num- 
ber of judges ; during which, the box, in which the numbers 
are being placed, is a source of the deepest interest. When 
the box is full, the boy who is to draw the numbers out of it 
becomes the prominent feature of the proceedings. He is al- 
ready dressed for his part, in a tight brown Holland coat, 
with only one (the left) sleeve to it, which leaves his right arm 
bared to the shoulder, ready for plunging down into the 
mysterious chest. 

During the hush and whisper that pervade the room, all 
eyes are turned on this young minister of fortune. People 
begin to inquire his age, with a view to the next lottery ; and 
the number of his brothers and sisters ; and the age of his 
father and mother ; and whether he has any moles or pimples 
upon him ; and where, and how many ; when the arrival of 
the last judge but one (a little old man, universally dreaded 
as possessing the Evil Eye) makes a slight diversion, and 
would occasion a greater one, but that he is immediately de- 
posed, as a source of interest, by the officiating priest, who ad- 
vances gravely to his place, followed by a very dirty little boy, 
carrying his sacred vestments, and a pot of Holy Water. 

Here is the last judge come at last, and now he takes his 
place at the horse-shoe table. 

There is a murmur of irrepressible agitation. In the midst 
of it, the priest puts his head into the sacred vestments, and 
pulls the same over his shoulders. Then he says a silent 
prayer ; and dipping a brush into the pot of Holy Water, 
sprinkles it over the box and over the boy. and gives them a 
double-barrelled blessing, which the box and the boy are both 
hoisted on the table to receive. The boy remaining on the 
table, the box is now carried round the front of the platform, 
by an attendant, who holds it up and shakes it lustily all the 
time ; seeming to say, like the conjurer, " There is no decep- 
tion, ladies and gentlemen ; keep your eyes upon me, if you 
please \ " 

At last, the box is set before the boy ; and the boy, first 
holding up his naked arm and open hand, dives down into the 
hole (it is made like a ballot-box) and pulls out a number, 
which is rolled up, round something hard, like a bonbon. This 
he hands to the judge next him, who unrolls a little bit, and 
hands it to the President, next to whom he sits. The 
President unrolls it, very slowly. The Capo Lazzarone leans 
over his shoulder. The President holds it up, unrolled, to the 
25 



5 j 4 PIC TURES FRO. 7/ / TA L K 

Capo Lazzarone. The Capo Lazzarone, looking at it eagerly, 
cries out, in a shrill loud voice, " Sessanta-due ! " (sixty-two), 
expressing the two upon his fingers, as he calls it out. Alas ! 
the Capo Lazzarone himself has not staked on sixty-two. His 
face is very long, and his eyes roll wildly. 

As it happens to be a favorite number, however, it is 
pretty well received, which is not always the case. They are 
all drawn with the same ceremony, omitting the blessing. One 
blessing is enough for the whole multiplication-table. The 
only new incident in the proceedings, is the gradually deepen- 
ing intensity of the change in the Capo Lazzarone, who has, 
evidently, speculated to the very utmost extent of his means ; 
and who, when he sees the last number, and finds that it is 
not one of his, clasps his hands, and raises his eyes to the ceil- 
ing before proclaiming it, as though remonstrating, in a secret 
agony, with his patron saint, for having committed so gross a 
breach of confidence. I hope the Capo Lazzarone may not 
desert him for some other member of the Calendar, but he 
seems to threaten it. 

Where the winners may be, nobody knows. They certainly 
are not present ; the general disappointment filling one with 
pity for the poor people. They look : when we stand aside, 
observing them, in their passage through the court-yard down 
below : as miserable as the prisoners in the gaol (it forms a 
part of the building), who are peeping down upon them, from 
between their bars ; or, as the fragments of human heads which 
are still dangling in chains outside, in memory of the good old 
times, when their owners were strung up there, for the popu- 
lar edification. 

Away from Naples in a glorious sunrise, by the road to 
Capua, and then on a three days' journey along by-roads, that 
we may see, on the way, the monastery of Monte Cassino, 
which is perched on the steep and lofty hill above the little 
town of San Germano, and is lost on a misty morning in the 
clouds. 

So much the better, for the deep sounding of its bell, which, 
as we go winding up, on mules, towards the convent, is heard 
mysteriously in the still air, while nothing is seen but the gray 
mist, moving solemnly and slowly, like a funeral procession. 
Behold, at length the shadowy pile of building close before 
us : its gray walls and towers dimly seen, though so near 
and so vast : and the raw vapor rolling through its cloisters 
heavily. 



PIC TURES FR OM ITAL Y. 575 

There are two black shadows walking to and fro in the 
quadrangle, near the statues of the Patron Saint and his sis- 
ter • and hopping on behind them, in and out of the old arches, 
is a raven, croaking in answer to the bell, and uttering, at in* 
tervals, the purest Tuscan. How like a Jesuit he looks ! 
There never was a sly and stealthy fellow so at home as is 
this raven, standing now at the refectory door, with his head 
on one side, and pretending to glance another way, while he 
is scrutinizing the visitors keenly, and listening with fixed at- 
tention. What a dull-headed monk the porter becomes in 
comparison ! 

" He speaks like us ! " says the porter : " quite as plainly." 
Quite as plainly, Porter. Nothing could be more expressive 
than his reception of the peasants who are entering the gate 
with baskets and burdens. There is a roll in his eye, and i\ 
chuckle in his throat, which should qualify him to be choset i 
Superior of an Order of Ravens. He knows all about it - 
"It's all right," he says. "We know what we know. Corm 
along, good people. Glad to see you ! " 

How was this extraordinary structure ever built in such a 
situation, where the labor of conveying the stone, and ironi, 
and marble, so great a height, must have been prodigious ? 
" Caw ! " says the raven, welcoming the peasants. Hour, 
being despoiled by plunder, fire and earthquake, has it risen 
from its ruins, and been again made what we now see it, with 
its church so sumptuous and magnificent ? " Caw ! " says the 
raven, welcoming the peasants. These people have a misera- 
ble appearance, and (as usual) are densely ignorant, and a.'l 
beg, while the monks are chaunting in the chapel. " Caw ! " 
says the raven, " Cuckoo ! " 

So we leave him, chuckling and rolling his eye at the con- 
vent gate, and wind slowly down again through the cloud. At 
last emerging from it, we come in sight of the village far below, 
and the flat green country intersected by rivulets ; which is 
pleasant and fresh to see after the obscurity and haze of the 
convent — no disrespect to the raven, or the holy friars. 

Away we go again, by muddy roads, and through the most 
shattered and tattered of villages, where there is not a whole 
window among all the houses, or a whole garment among all 
the peasants, or the least appearance of anything to eat, in 
any of the wretched hucksters' shops. The women wear a 
bright red bodice laced before and behind, a white skirt and 
the Neapolitan head-dress of square folds of linen, primitively 



576 PICTURES FROM TTAL Y. 

meant to ca*.ry loads on. The men and children weal 
anything they can get. The soldiers are as dirty and ra- 
pacious as the dogs. The inns are such hobgoblin places, 
that they are infinitely more attractive and amusing than the 
best hotels in Paris. Here is one near Valmontone (that 
is Valmontone, the round, walled town on the mount opposite), 
which is approached by a quagmire almost knee-deep. There 
is a wild colonnade below, and a dark yard full of empty sta- 
bles and lofts, and a great long kitchen with a great long 
bench and a great long form, where a party of travellers, with 
two priests among them, are crowding round the fire while 
their supper is cooking. Above stairs, is a rough brick gal- 
lery to sit in, with very little windows with very small patches 
of knotty glass in them, and all the doors that open from it 
(a dozen or two) off their hinges, and a bare board on tressels 
t/D.r a table, at which thirty people might dine easily, and a fire- 
place large enough in itself for a breakfast-parlor, where, as 
the faggots blaze and crackle, they illuminate the ugliest and 
grimmest of faces, drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed 
chimney-sides by previous travellers. There is a flaring 
country lamp on the table ; and, hovering about it, scratching 
her thick black hair continually, a yellow dwarf of a woman, 
\rho stands on tiptoe to arrange the hatchet knives; and takes 
a flying leap to look into the water-jug. The beds in the 
aidjoining rooms are of the liveliest kind. There is not a soli- 
tary scrap of looking-glass in the house, and the washing appa- 
ratus is identical with the cooking utensils. But the yellow 
dwarf sets on the table a good flask of excellent wine, holding 
u quart at least ; and produces, among half-a-dozen other 
dishes, two-thirds of a roasted kid, smoking hot. She is as 
good-humored, too, as dirty, which is saying a great deal. So 
here's long life to her, in the flask of wine, and prosperity to 
the establishment. 

Rome gained and left behind, and with it the Pilgrims who 
are now repairing to their own homes again — each with his 
scallop shell and staff, and soliciting alms for the love of God 
— we come, by a fair country, to the Falls of Terni, where the 
whole Velino river dashes, headlong, from a rocky height, 
amidst shining spray and rainbows. Perugia, strongly forti- 
fied by art and nature, on a lofty eminence, rising abruptly 
from the plain where purple mountains mingle with the distant 
sky, is glowing, on its market day, with radiant colors. They 
• set off its sombre but rich Gothic buildings admirably. The 

% 
\ 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 



577 



pavement of its market-place is strewn with country goods. 
AH along the steep hill leading from the town, under the town 
wall, there is a noisy fair of calves, lambs, pigs, horses, mules 
and oxen. Fowls, geese, and turkeys, flutter vigorously among 
their very hoofs ; and buyers, sellers, and spectators, cluster- 
ing everywhere, block up the road as we come shouting down 
upon them. 

Suddenly there is a ringing sound among our horses. The 
driver stops them. Sinking in his saddle, and casting up his 
eyes to Heaven, he delivers this apostrophe, " Oh Jove Om- 
nipotent ! here is a horse has lost his shoe ! " 

Notwithstanding the tremendous nature of this accident, 
and the utterly forlorn look and gesture (impossible in any 
one but an Italian Vetturino) with which it is announced, it is 
not long in being repaired by a mortal Farrier, by whose as- 
sistance we reach Castiglione the same night, and Arezzo next 
day. Mass is, of course, performing in its fine cathedral, 
where the sun shines in among the clustered pillars, through 
rich stained-glass windows : half revealing, half concealing the 
kneeling figures on the pavement, and striking out paths of 
spotted light in the long aisles. 

But, how much beauty of another kind is here, when, on a 
fair clear morning, we look, from the summit of . a hill, on 
Florence ! See where it lies before us in a sun-lighted valley, 
bright with the winding Arno, and shut in by swelling hills ; 
its domes and towers, and palaces, rising from the rich coun- 
try in a glittering heap, and shining in the sun like gold ! 

Magnificently stern and sombre are the streets of beauti- 
ful Florence ; and the strong old piles of building make 
such heaps of shadow, on the ground and in the river, that 
there is another and a different city of rich forms and fancies, 
always lying at our feet. Prodigious palaces, constructed for 
defence, with small distrustful windows heavily barred, and 
walls of great thickness formed of huge masses of rough stone, 
frown, in their old sulky state, on every street. In the midst 
of the city — in the Piazza of the Grand Duke, adorned with 
beautiful statues and the Fountain of Neptune — rises the 
Palazzo Vecchio, with its enormous overhanging battlements, 
and the Great Tower that watches over the whole town. In 
its court-yard — worthy of the Castle of Otranto in its ponder- 
ous goom — is a massive staircase that the heaviest waggon 
and the stoutest team of horses might be driven up. Within 
it, is a Great Saloon, faded and tarnished in its stately deco* 



5 7'3 PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 

rations, and mouldering by grains, but recording yet, in pie 
tures on its walls, the triumphs of the Medici and the wars of 
the old Florentine people. The prison is hard by, in an 
adjacent court-yard of the building — a foul and dismal place, 
where some men are shut up close, in small cells like ovens ; 
and where others look through bars and beg ; where some 
are playing draughts, and some are talking to their friends, 
who smoke, the while, to purify the air ; and some are buying 
wine and fruit of women-vendors ; and all are squalid, dirty, 
and vile, to look at. "They are merry enough, Signore," 
says the Jailer. " They are all blood-stained here," he adds, 
indicating, with his hand, three-fourths of the whole building. 
Before the hour is out, an old man, eighty years of age, quar- 
relling over a bargain with a young girl of seventeen, stabs 
her dead, in the market-place full of bright flowers ; and is 
'brought in prisoner, to swell the number. 

Among the four old bridges that span the river, the Ponte 
Vecchio — that bridge which is covered with the shops of 
Jewellers and Goldsmiths — is a most enchanting feature in 
the scene. The space of one house, in the centre, being left 
open, the view beyond, is shown as in a frame ; and that pre- 
cious glimpse of sky, and water, and rich buildings, shining so 
quietly among the huddled roofs and gables on the bridge, is 
exquisite. Above it, the Gallery of the Grand Duke crosses 
the river. It was built to connect the two Great Palaces by a 
secret passage ; and it takes its jealous course among the 
streets and houses, with true despotism : going where it list?, 
and spurning every obstacle away, before it. 

The Grand Duke has a worthier secret passage through 
the streets, in his black robe and hood, as a member of the 
Compagnia della Misericordia, which brotherhood includes 
all ranks of men. If an accident take place, their office is, 
to raise the sufferer, and bear him tenderly to the Hospital. 
If a fire break out, it is one of their functions to repair to the 
spot, and render their assistance and protection. It is, also, 
among their commonest offices, to attend and console the sickj 
and they neither receive money, nor eat, nor drink, in any 
house they visit for this purpose. Those who are on duty for 
the time, are all called together, on a moment's notice, by the 
tolling of the great bell of the Tower ; and it is said that the 
Grand Duke has been seen, at this sound, to rise from his 
seat at table, and quietly withdraw to attend the summons. 

In this other large Piazza, where an irregular kind of 



PICTURES FROM ITAL Y. 5 7 9 

market is held, and stores of old iron and other small mer- 
chandise are set out on stalls, or scattered on the pavement, 
are grouped together, the Cathedral with its great Dome, the 
beautiful Italian Gothic Tower the Campanile, and the Bap- 
tistery with its wrought bronze doors. And here, a small un- 
trodden square in the pavement, is "the Stone of Dante," 
where (so runs the story) he was used to bring his stool, and 
sit in contemplation. I wonder was he ever, in his bitter 
exile, withheld from cursing the very stones in the streets of 
Florence the ungrateful, by any kind remembrance of this old 
musing-place, and its association with gentle thoughts of little 
Beatrice ! 

The chapel of the Medici, the Good and Bad Angels, of 
Florence ; the church of Santa Croce where Michael Angelo 
lies buried, and where every stone in the cloisters is eloquent 
on great men's deaths ; innumerable churches, often masses 
of unfinished heavy brickwork externally, but solemn and 
serene within ; arrest our lingering steps, in strolling through 
the city. 

In keeping with the tombs among the cloisters, is the 
Museum of Natural History, famous through the world for its 
preparations in wax ; beginning with models of leaves, seeds, 
plants, inferior animals ; and gradually ascending, through 
separate organs of the human frame, up to the whole structure 
of that wonderful creation, exquisitely presented, as in recent 
death. Few admonitions of our frail mortality can be more 
solemn and more sad, or strike so home upon the heart, as the 
counterfeits of Youth and Beauty that are lying there, upon 
their beds, in their last sleep. 

Beyond the walls, the whole sweet Valley of the Arno, the 
convent at Fiesole, the Tower of Galileo, Boccaccio's house, 
old villas and retreats ; innumerable spots of interest, all 
glowing in a landscape of surpassing beauty steeped in the 
richest light ; are spread before us. Returning from so much 
brightness, how solemn and how grand the streets again, with 
their great, dark, mournful palaces, and many legends : not of 
siege, and war, and might, and Iron Hand alone, but of the 
triumphant growth of peaceful Arts and Sciences. 

What light is shed upon the world, at this day, from 
amidst these rugged Palaces of Florence ! Here, open to all 
comers, in their beautiful and calm retreats, the ancient Sculp- 
tors are immortal, side by side with Michael Angelo, Canova, 
Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, Poets, Historians, Philosophers 



5 8o 



PICTURES FROM ITALY. 



— those illustrious men of history, beside whom its crowned 
heads and harnessed warriors show so poor and small, and 
are so soon forgotten. Here, the imperishable part of noble 
minds survives, placid and equal, when strongholds of assault 
and defence are overthrown ; when the tyranny of the many, 
or the few, or both, is but a tale ; when Pride and Power are 
so much cloistered dust. The fire within the stern streets, 
and among the massive Palaces and Towers, kindled by rays 
from Heaven, is still burning brightly, when the flickering of 
war is extinguished and the household fires of generations 
have decayed ; as thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid 
with the strife and passion of the hour, have faded out of the 
old Squares and public haunts, while the nameless Florentine 
Lady, preserved from oblivion by a Painter's hand, yet lives 
on, in enduring grace and youth. 

Let us look back on Florence while we may, and when 
its shining Dome is seen no more, go travelling through cheer- 
ful Tuscany, with a bright remembrance of it ; for Italy will 
be the fairer for the recollection. The summer time being 
come : and Genoa, and Milan, and the Lake of Como lying 
far behind us : and we resting at Faido, a Swiss village, near 
the awful rocks and mountains, the everlasting snows and 
roaring cataracts, of the Great Saint Gothard : hearing the 
Italian tongue for the last time on this journey: let us part 
from Italy, with all its miseries and wrongs, affectionately, in 
our admiration of the beauties, natural and artificial, of which 
it is full to overflowing, and in our tenderness towards a peo- 
ple, naturally well-disposed, and patient, and sweet-tempered. 
Years of neglect, oppression, and misrule, have been at work, 
to change their nature and reduce their spirit ; miserable 
jealousies, fomented by petty Princes to whom union was 
destruction, and division strength, have been a canker at their 
root of nationality, and have barbarized their language ; but 
the good that was in them ever, is in them yet, and a noble 
people may be, one day, raised up from these ashes. Let us 
entertain that hope ! And let us not remember Italy the less 
regardfully, because, in every fragment of her fallen Temples, 
and every stone of her deserted palaces and prisons, she helps 
to inculcate the lesson that the wheel of Time is rolling for an 
end, and that the world is, in all great essentials, better, gen< 
tier, more forbearing, and more hopeful, as it rolls ! 



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" 'Yolande' will please and interest 
many."— Whitehall . 



The LADIES LINDQRES. By Mrs. Oliphant. Originally 
published in Blackwood's Magazine, lvol., 12rao., cloth, gilt, $1. 

laird John Erskine, and of the most 
modern of marquises, Lord Mille- 
fleurs."— Spectator, 



"She is always readable, but never 
so entertaining as when she lays the 
scene in Scotland . . . It is impossible 
to imagine sketches more lifelike than 
those of old Bolls, the pragmatic but- 
ler ...of Miss Barbara Erskine, the 
high-spirited, punctilious, but sensi- 
ble old aunt; of Lord Rintoul, the 
weakly yet coolly selfish and sensible 
young lord of the ordinary young 



" 'The Ladies Lindores' is in every 
respect excellent There are two 
girls at least in this book who might 
make the fortune :>f any novel, being 
deliciously feminine and natural." — 
Saturday Review. 



LOYS, LORD BERESFOBX), and other Tales. By the 

Author of "Phyllis," "Molly Bawn," "Mrs. Geoffrey," etc. 

1 vol. , 12rao., cloth, gilt, $1.00; also in Lovell's Library, No. 

126, 1 vol., 12mo.. paper cover, 20 cents. 

"Tbat delightful writer the author i ular. There is something good in all 

of 'Phyllis, has given us a collection of them, and one or two are especially 

of stories which cannot fail to be pon- I racy ar-d piquant. '•'— The Academy. 

NO NEW THING. By W. E. N orris, Author of "Matri- 
mony," "Mademoiselle de Mersac," etc. 1 vol.. 12mo., cloth, 
gilt, $1.00; also in Lovell's Library, No. 108, 20 cents. 

" MSTc New Thing' is bright, readable 
and clever, and in every sense of the 
word a thoroughly interesting book." 

Whitehall Review. 



'Mr. Norris has succeeded. His 
story, 'No New Thing,' is a very curi 

ous one There is unmistakable 

capacity in his work."— Spectator. 



AKDEN. By A. Mary F. Robinson. 
Library, No. 134, 15 cents. 



1 vci., 12mo., m Lovell's 



"Miss Robinson must certainly be 
congratulated on having scored a suc- 
cess at the very beginning of her ca- 
reer. 'Arden' is an extremely clever 



acter. Brought up in Borne, on the 
death of her father, Acden returns to 
his native village in Warwickshire, 
there to make acquaintance with the 



story, and though it is one merely of I truest and freshest country people w 



every-day life, yet the incidents are so 
clothed as to appear fresh and new, 
and the scent of the hay throughout 
is invigorating and refreshing. The 
heroine, who gives her name to the 
book, is a wild, impulsive creature 
whom one cannot help liking, in spite 
of various weaknesses in her char- 



have ever met on paper. The story 
is simply that of Arden s life and 
marriage, but it is never wearisome 
because of the sharpness of the writ- 
ing, and we have to thank Miss Robin- 
eon for a very good novel indeed . "— 
Whitehall Review. 



New York s JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY. 




KEYSTONE ORGAN. 



The finest organ in the 
Market. Price reduced 
from $175 to $125. Acclimatized case. Anti-Shoddy and Anti-Monopoly. Not all case, 
stops, top and advertisement. Warranted for 6 years. Has the Excelsior 18-Stop 
Combination, embracing: Diapason, Flute, Melodia-Forte, Violina, Aeolma, \ io a, 
Flute-Forte, Celeste, Dulcet, Echo, Melodia, Celestina, Octave Coupler, Tremelo, 
Sub-Bass, Cello, Grand-Organ Air Brake, Grand-Organ Swell. Two Knee- 
Stops. This is a Walnut case, with Music Balcony, Sliding Desk, Side Handles *c 
Dimensions : Height, 75 inches; Length, 48 inches; Depth, 24 inches. This 5-Octave 
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$125* Send by express, prepaid, check, or registered letter to 



DICKINSON & C: 



Pianos and Organs, 
19 West llth Street, New York* 



LOVELL'S LIBRARY-CATALOGUE. 



113. 

114. 

115. 

116. 
117. 
118. 
119. 
120. 
121. 
122. 
123. 
124. 

125. 
126. 

127. 

128. 
129. 
130. 
131. 
\V2. 

133. 



134. 

135. 
136. 
137. 
138. 
139. 
( 10, 
141. 
142. 

143 
144. 

145. 

146. 
147. 
14>?. 
149. 
150. 

1"4. 
1V3. 
153. 

154. 
155. 
156. 

157. 

158. 

160. 

161. 
162. 



MoreWords About the Bible, 
by Rev. Jas. S. Bush 

Monsieur Leooq, Gaboriau Pt. I. 

Monsieur Lecoq, ' Pt. II 

An Outline of Irish History, by 
Justin II. McCarthy 

TheLerougeCase, byGaboriau. 

Paul Clifford, by Lord Lytton. . 

A New Lease of Life, by About. . 

Bourbon Lilies 

Other People's Money, Gaboriau 

The Lady of Lyons, Lytton.. 

Ameline de Bourg 

A Sea Queen, by W. Russell 

The Ladies Lindores, by Mrs. 
Oliphant 

Haunted Hearts, by Simpson.... 

Loys, I ord Beresford, by The 
Duchess 

Under Two Flags, Ouida, Pt. I. . 

Under Two Flags. Pt. II 

Money, by Lord Lytton 

In Peril of His Life, byGaboriau. 

India, by Max Miiller 

Jets and Flashes 

Moonshine and Marguerites, by 
The Duchess 

Mr Scarborough's Family, by 
Anthony Trollope, Part I 

Mr ScarboroughsPamily, PtII 

Arden, by A. Mary F. Robinson. 

The Tower of Percemont 

Yolaude, by Wm. Black 

Cruel London, by Joseph ITattou. 

The Gilded Cl ; qne, by Gaboriau. 

Pike County Folks, E. H. Mott. . 

Cricket on the Hearth 

Henry Esmond, by Thackeray.. 

Strange Adventures of a Phae- 
ton, by Wm. Black 

Denis Duval, by Thackeray 

Old Curiosity Shop,Dickens,PtI. 

Old Curiosity Shop, Part II. . . . 

Ivanhoe, by Scott, Part I 

Ivanhoe, by Scott, Part II 

White Wings, by Wm. Black.. 

The Sketch Book, by Irving 

Catherine, by W M. Thackeray. 

Janet's Bepentance, by Eliot.... 

Barnaby Rudge, Dickens, Pt I. . 

BarnaHv Rudge, Part II 

Felix Holt, b / George Eliot 

R'chelieu, by Lord Lrtton 

Sunrise, by Wm. Black, Part I. . 

Sunrise, by Wm. Black. Part II. 

Tour of the World in 80 Days. . 

Mystery of Orcival Gaboriau 

Lovel, the Widower, by W. M. 
Thackeray 

Romantic Adventures of a Milk 
maid, by Thomas Hardv 

David C^pperfield, Dickens, Pt I. 

David Copperfield, r art II 

Rienzi, by Lord Lytton, Part I. . 

Rtnzi, by Lord Lytton, Partll. 

Pio nise of Marriage, Gaboriau. 

Faith and Unfaith, by The 

Duchess 



' 



186. 

187. 
188. 
189. 

190. 
191. 
192. 
193. 

194. 
195. 

196. 
107. 

198. 
199. 



200. 
201. 



The Happy Man, by Lover... 10 
Barry Lyndon, by Thackeray.... 20 

Eyre's Acquittal 10 

Twenty Thousand Leagues Un- 
der the Sea, by Jules Verne 20 

Anti-Slavery Days, by James 

Freeman Clarke.. 20 

Beauty's Daughters, by The 

Duchess. 20 

Beyond the Sunrise.. 20 

Hard Times, by Charles Dickens. 20 
Tom Cringle's Log, by M.Scott.. 20 
Vanity Fair, by W.M.Thackeray.20 
Underground Russia, Stepniak..20 
Middlerharch, by Elliot, Pt I... .20 

M iddlemarch. Part II 20 

Sir Tom, by Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Pelham, by Lord Lytton 20 

The Story of Ida 10 

Madcap Violet, by Wm. Black. .20 

The Little Pilgrim 10 

Kilmeny, by Wm. Black 20 

Whist, or Bumblepnppy? 10 

The Beautiful Wretch, Black .... 20 
Her Mother's Sin, by B. M. Clay. 20 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly," 

by Wm. Black 20 

The Mysterious Island, by Jules 

Verne, Part 1 15 

The Mysterious Island, Part II. .15 
The Mysterious Island, Part III. 15 
Tom Brown at Oxford, Part I ... 15 
Tom Brown at Oxford, Part II . . 1 '. 
Thicker than Water, by J. Payn.2) 
In Silk Attire, by Wm. Black. . .20 
Scottish Chiefs.Jane Porter,Pt,I.20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

Willy Reilly, by Will Carleton. .20 
The Nautz Family, by Shelley .20 
Great Expectations, by Dickens. -"0 
Pendennis.by Thackeray, Part 1.20 
Pendennis.by Thackeray,Part 21.20 

Widow Bedott Papers 20 

Daniel Deronda,Geo. Eliot,Pt. 1.20 

Daniel Deronda, Part II 20 

Altiora Peto, by Oliphan" 20 

By the Gate of the Sea, by David 

Christie Murray 15 

Tales of a Traveller, by Irving. . .20 
Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

by Washington Irving, Part I. .20 
Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

by Washington Irving, Part 11.20 

The Pilgrim's Progress 20 

Martin Chuzzlewit, by Charles 

Dickens, Part 1 20 

Martm Chuzzlewit, Part II 20 

Theophrastus Such. Geo. Eliot. . .20 
Disarmed, M. Betham-Edwards..l5 
Eugene Aram by Lord Lytton. 20 
The Spanish Gypsy and Other 

Poems, by George Eliot 20 

Cast Up by the Sea Baker 20 

Mill on the Floss, Eliot. Pt. I. . . 15 

Mill on the Floss, Part II 15 

Brother Jacob, and Mr. Gilfil's 

Love Story, by George Eliot. . .10 
Wrecks in the Sea of Life .20 



ERAET AND NERVE FOOD. 




Vitalized Phos-phites, 

COMPOSED OF THE NERVE-GIVING PRINCIPLES OP 
«^£HE OX-BRAIN AND WHEAT-GERM. 

It r«»tip^S3fe^yjto|ta}y Nervousness or Indigestion ; relieves 
Lassitude and^WumaBEcetf^Ws the nerves tired by worry, excite- 
ment, or exceWve' brtinv|^H3*|4|Sengthens a failing memory, and 
J lives renewed vigor in alhdiseases ox Nervous Exhaustion or Debility, 
tit the only PREVENTIVE FOR CONSUMPTION. 

It aid* wonderfully in the mental and bodily growth of infants and 
children. Under its use the teeth wine easier. Hit bones grow better, the skin 
jAumper and smoother; the brain acquires more readily, and rests and sleeps 
more sweetly. . An ill-fed brain learns no lessons, and is excusable if peevish. 
It gives a happier and better childhood. 

"It is with tne utmos.t eonjfidenee that I recommend this excellent pre- 
paration for the relief of indigestion and for general debility; nay, I do more 
than recommend, 1 really urge all invalids to put it to the test, for in sev- 
eral cases personally known to me signal benefits have been derived from 
its use. 1 have recently watched its effects on a young friend who has 
suffered from indigestion all her life. After taking the Vitalized Phos- 
phites for a fortnight she said to me; ' I feel another person; it is a pleas- 
ure to live.' Many hard-working men and women — especially those engaged 
in brain work— would be saved from the fatal resort to chloral and other 
destructive stimulants, if they would have recourse to a remedy so simple 
and so efficacious. " 

Emily Faithfuix. 

Physicians have prescribed oyer ©00,000 Pace ages because they 

enow its Composition, that it is not a secret remedy, amd 

that the formula is printed on every label 

For Sale toy DrugfUti or toy stall, •*. 

F. CEOSBY CO., 664 and 666 Sixth Ayenut, New York, 



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